[Fiction] Short Tales of Middle Earth: A series of single FFs by Inarus!

[Maximus IV]

Author: Inarus
Original Thread: Short Tales of Middle Earth: A series of single FFs by Inarus!

Short Tales of Middle Earth

I intend this thread to include short Fan Fics of Middle Earth, I had one story which I believed to be too short to be alone so I posted it in what may be a collection. Please comment/criticise. Beware of spoilers!

The First Age

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Forward (So read it first!)

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Inspired by The Silmarillion, I decided to explore, in greater depth, the tales of Middle-Earth before the First Age. These are simply expanded sections of The Silmarillion, rewritten with more detail than Tolkien first used. I use many of Tolkien's original phrases (and add many more of my own).

Here follows the tale of the Kinslaying of Aqualondë:

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The Kinslaying of Aqualondë

Having turned their backs on the Valar, the Noldor, split into two Factions - one under Fëanor and the other under Fingolfin - made to flee from the Undying Lands. Fëanor set his eyes on the White Swan Ships of the Teleri, the people of Aqualondë, the most beautiful harbour in Aman.

Part I: The Words of Fëanor

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The Words of Fëanor

‘…Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For I say to you, Fëanor son of Finwë, these are to us as are the gems of the Noldor: the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again.’

Olwë fell quiet and Fëanor looked at him with all signs of former friendship lost. He whispered ultimately, ‘So be it,’ and thus departed, leading his followers from the havens of Aqualondë.At last, when outside the walls, he sat on the ground and there none troubled the thoughtful King.

The followers of Fëanor, many of whom had still been marching from their former homelands whilst Fëanor spoke to the Teleri, the people of Aqualondë, were now slowly gathering around their King. Fëanor looked upon his people with sadness, uncertain of his path yet determined to escape the Undying Lands as soon as possible. Anger fuelled his decisions; already his demanding of the Swan Ships had been declined and now he had settled thus: force had to be undertaken, for the sake of the Noldor, his people.

Climbing atop a wagon he announced, ‘My people! Today I ask the worst from ye, I ask for your allegiance in a task none of ye, nor I, desire. The Teleri have refused to aid us, refused the loan of their precious ships. We have two paths before us, yet that second is the impossible for we cannot brave the Helcaraxë, our people would not endure such treacherous trails. Thus that leaves us with but one choice: the Swan Ships of Aqualondë must be seized,’ he paused, taking a deep breath, ‘by force.’

The women were silent, the elder men were so too, yet the youthful warriors, who outnumbered the rest and saw their sovereign’s need for support, cried their agreement and without command, formed up. Fëanor was encouraged and with a lighter heart moved to the front of these ranks and advanced towards the city gates. Pounding of footsteps ensured as the well-armed legions of Noldor thundered through the marble streets of Aqualondë, past the houses and the marketplaces, past the industries and taverns, coming at last to the fair docks where floated numerous of the white ships, adorned with prows of swan heads. The soldiers of Fëanor hastened aboard, roughly shoving aside any who stood before them. They raised the sails and manned the oars, the women and elderly, the young and weak were all herded below deck.

But now a determined captain, one of the Teleri named Elen, hastened from his cabin and with a swift punch he hurled a Noldor overboard. The splash sounded, a drowning cry followed, and Elen rounded on the other thieves of Fëanor. Other sailors of the Teleri were making their protests heard, some striking the Noldor with bare hands as had Elen. The Noldor retaliated yet none drew their blade; however at some point during that fearsome mêlée blood was spilt, but who the first victim of drawn blade was or who bore that blade, none knew. That victim fell overboard with a scream, a cold scream that rose to the heavens, a scream that shook the foundations of the halls of Mandos, for such was the scream of the first victim of his own people, Elf upon Elf. Thus the First Kinslaying began, to be remembered by every descendant of the Houses of the Teleri and of the Noldor.

Part II: The Followers of Fëanor

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The Followers of Fëanor

As the cry rose up, so did the rage within the Teleri’s hearts. Steel glinted. Curses sounded. Death followed.

A Noldor fell to the ground before Fëanor and the impetuous child of Finwë was aghast. This he had brought upon his people, their own death at the hands of their own blood – yet he saw not this but the murder at a Teleri’s hand. Blinded – he could not see it was himself to blame – his sword swung up . . . and down. A Teleri died, his breast rent apart by the sword of Fëanor, a Noldor lay with his helm cloven in two, another Noldor was hurled into the water and did not rise again, a Teleri was ran through with a spear, the bodies piled up, so many corpses, so many pointy-eared corpses, so many good lives corrupted by one who had fallen ever so low.

Fëanor only killed once in that first attempt to seize the Teleri’s ships, after that he stepped back and his followers killed for him.

It was not in cowardice though that the mighty elf stepped back but in shock, all about him everything was a blur of silver upon blue shields, of spears and glinting armour, of fishermen dying at Noldor hands. Fëanor watched in a mix of anger and despair, two conflicting emotions that could not triumph over each other. His comrades were lost in the adrenaline and bloodlust, they too saw naught but blurs about them, and they had lost all sense of situation and deeds.

The Teleri, lightly armed and unprepared for battle, did not fare as badly as their opponents, oars and harpoons made up for spears and blades, one Teleri hurled a fishing net around his attacker and dragged him off the pier, another used a woodworker’s mallet to hammer a Noldor senseless. From the decks of some ships, Teleri launched rains of arrows down upon their opponents, yet the Noldor took up their bows and returned fire.

Having been driven back from the ships the Noldor suddenly came forth again, but the Teleri now had time to reach their bows and a few swords and they fought with far greater effectiveness. Arrows felled countless Noldor, driving them back; the ships were at last cleared of foes yet the followers of Fëanor would not give up. Behind shields, they came forth again, making it to the ships before being met by armed mariners. Steel clashed again, more cries as more elves were cast overboard; the fair waters were fair no more, now running red with elven blood.

For a third time the Noldor were driven back and it was at that moment that the vanguard of Fingolfin’s people came upon this bloody scene. Fingon, Fingolfin’s son, led these people and his father was not yet present, in despair and fury he looked upon the scene, for he believed that, at the bidding of the Valar, the Teleri were opposing the Noldor and thus he drew his blade and his vanguard followed his example.

Part III: The Doom of Fëanor

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The Doom of Fëanor

‘Lo! The Teleri serve now the Valar, and oppose our righteous path, my friends, to arms!’

So Fingon spoke and with a roar his vanguard charged. Swords, shields, spears glinted as they came down to the docks, and so they joined the slaughter and were victorious. Fëanor saw now that their path was decided; he took up his sword and joined the bloodshed. Voices rang out from either side to stop the bloodletting, to end the slaying of kin, yet they were drowned out by dying elves’ screams and the clash of metal upon metal. The Teleri were cast from their ships, violently and mercilessly for the Noldor saw only that they must escape Aman and with that desperate thought in mind they slew.

Thus the Swan Ships of Aqualondë were seized by Fëanor with Fingon’s aid and they sailed out of the port to the despair of their owners. Devastated, Olwë called upon the Lords of the Oceans, to avenge the dead of Aqualondë but the Valar refused to oppose the Noldor.

Nonetheless as they departed the bay, the skies thundered and the waves rose up in defiance. Fëanor’s fleet moved north and the rage of the oceans pursued them. Rain hammered down on the pearly ships, icy on the sailor’s skin. Lightning flashed on the horizon and the followers of Fëanor looked upon the storm in dread. Every second the seas grew rougher, waves striking the ships and threatening to overturn them. At the prow of his ship, Fëanor looked out at the storm ahead and cursed the Valar. A flash of lightning and he glanced towards the ship to his left, it was no longer there. It had not vanished – not yet – it’s majestic figurehead, the elegant swan of Aqualondë, still jutted above the surface of the tumultuous ocean. Thunder roared, lightning flashed, the swan’s head was swallowed by the sea. One ship and countless elves lost to the waves.

The storms raged on and many more ships were taken by the sea, yet many leagues north the Noldor came ashore, the majority of their number intact. There they regrouped with Fingolfin’s people who had marched to that place afoot and had not partaken in the Kinslaying.

And in that place their Doom was told unto them.

Upon a high rock overlooking the coast He stood and it is said that He was Mandos, prophet of the Valar, appearing in full form to speak their fate. His voice boomed loud and clear, and all Noldor heard it and were afraid for he spoke to them the Prophecy of the North, known also as the Doom of the Noldor. It spoke of the misery that lay ahead of them all, and on the House of Fëanor the Valar promised their eternal wrath, on Fëanor and all his descendants. He spoke of the fate of all elves in Middle-earth: that they would become weary, fade and be but shadows in the face of those coming ahead of them: Men.

That said, the elves were terrified, particularly Finarfin and his people who returned and sought successfully the forgiveness of the Valar. Fëanor, however, hardened his heart and spoke to his people, inspiring them to go forth in their venture. And thus they came north to the Helcaraxë and there the treachery began.

For there they could not continue; the icy plain to Beleriand none dared tread and the ships were too few to ferry them across. Yet in their desperation, Fëanor and his sons seized the fleet and stole away in the darkness. Many leagues they passed, coming at last to Losgar at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist and there they disembarked and looked back at the fairest fleet that had ever sailed the seas of Arda.

There one of Fëanor’s followers asked who would return to help ferry across the remaining elves in Aman, and Fëanor smiled and replied:

‘None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar!’ He paused and his smile grew wider, he commanded ultimately, ‘Let the ships burn!’
The torches approached the white ships, orange flames swirling in the darkness. Fëanor watched with pride and delight as the dots of flame descended upon the pearly vessels of the Teleri, then the flames leapt up and the boats were consumed.

And as the last of the Swan Ships burnt, Fëanor turned, and led his people to their new home.

*

The fires raged for hours, a blaze so great that leagues away Fingolfin and his people saw the glow of fire far away on the horizon and knew that they were betrayed. Such was the firstfruits of the Kinslaying and the Doom of the Noldor.

Thus, bitter Fingolfin had no other choice, leading his people across the deadly ice plain: Helcaraxë.

Here follows the tale of Fingolfin's death:

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The Fall of Fingolfin

Flame scorched the lands of Northern Beleriand and, under a dark cloud of poisonous fumes, rode Fingolfin, King.

Anger drove him, fear deserted him, courage rode with him and his great steed, Rochallor, bore him without fail. For all the High Elf saw in his mind’s eye was the ruin of his people and his far green country. Already fire licked the northern borders of the realm of the Free, all of Ard-galen was blackened, reduced to ash. Upon the horizon the despairing elf saw the black mountains of Iron and rising taller and more menacing than the surrounding peaks were the towering three chimneys of Thangorodrim, great powers of ash, hollow, from which belched great fumes from the furnaces of Angband.

And with anger and determination he arrived. Before the great gates of iron he raised his horn to his lips and blew, long and loud. Then he cried aloud and all heard heard him, even in the deepest cavern, ‘Murderer! Traitor! Come forth coward, let not thy minions do thou work for thee! I, Fingolfin, son of Finwë, challenge thee Melkor the Constrainer, Craven like no else, lord of slaves, to a duel to the death! Face me! Come forth else I shalt come to thee!’ and with those words he smote the gate and it lay in ruins and then there was silence but finally He answered the summons.

He came robed in darkness with armour blacker than night and shrouding his face was a great helm with a crown of spikes, a presence of terror and a shadow that covered all.

All save Fingolfin.

Robed in silver and gleaming like a star he stood steady before the approaching might of Morgoth bearing a sapphire shield encrusted with crystals and a sword that glittered like ice: Ringil.

But on one arm Melkor bore a vast shield sable unblazoned and in the other he carried Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, a mace of terror and devastation.
And so Ringil met Grond upon the doorstep of Angband.


For a while there was silence, the two opponents staring at each other, waiting for the other to make his move. But then Morgoth swung his great hammer and nimble Fingolfin evaded it like a fly dodges a swat so that the foul mace struck the earth instead, leaving behind a deep pit. Angered by the miss the twisted Ainur aimed his mace at the Elf once again but the elf rolled aside and into the pit, stabbing his sword upwards as he eluded the blow. Morgoth gave a fierce scream and stepped back and seeing a weakness the High King of the Noldor rose and jumped at Morgoth. However the evil being swung his heavy shield easily at the small elf and struck him and the elf was hurled aside.

Blood oozed from a scalp wound but the King was not deterred. Morgoth came at him once again and many times he attacked and many holes were delved into the earth but Fingolfin always evaded. And Morgoth grew increasingly furious and so his attempts to smite the elf were wilder and so more and more times was he unguarded in places and there Fingolfin stabbed or slash until Morgoth bore five more wounds and cried in anguish five more times.

And there came a point when, plagued with fatigue, Fingolfin was crushed by a blow from his opponents shield and fell to his knees. Morgoth moved closer and hurled aloft Grond so that the mighty hammer cast a great shadow over the elf. And as his enemy brought down his hammer, Fingolfin leapt at his exposed chest, stabbing Ringil deep into Morgoth’s chest so that a spurt of black blood escaped and he drew back with another cry. Confidence pushed Fingolfin to his doom and he went forward to strike again but once more the great shield struck him and hurled him like a catapult casts a boulder.

Fingolfin’s shield lay in pieces at Morgoth’s feet, he was weak and blood poured from a head-wound. But bravely he rose once more and like lightning he darted to his enemy, stabbed - but the shield blocked Ringil and Fingolfin was pushed for the final time to his knees. But he rose once more.

Fingolfin advanced more carefully, unhelmed by the latest shield-bash. Courage, anger and despair drove him to attack once more and as he drew close to his opponent Morgoth swung his hammer and the elf drew back but as he did so his bloodied sword was struck by Grond shattered like glass. Unarmed, the elf retreated and as he did so he stumbled upon the edge of one of Grond’s great pits and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth. Suddenly an iron foot – Morgoth’s left – was set upon the High King’s throat and its weight was like a fallen hill. Choking, Fingolfin grasped around for a stone or something that he could use to aid himself. His hand fell upon the hilt of Ringil, still with a few inches of sharp blade left and with this Fingolfin stabbed repeatedly at the armoured foot of Morgoth until blood poured from the wound and filled the pit in which he lay. Morgoth cried aloud but did not release the pressure upon his foes throat.

First his grasp upon the hilt of his shattered sword weakened until it fell, then his vision failed and he had not the strength to push back the foot from his neck. The last thing he saw was the iron crown of Morgoth above him and the Silmarils glittering in the darkness and a great eagle flying overhead.

Then the blackness took him and then the grey rain curtain of this world rolled back and all turned to silver glass and Fingolfin beheld a far green country under a swift sunrise.

And so Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, son of Finwë, most proud and valiant of the Elven-Kings of old, departed this world but Morgoth was not yet finished. He took the body of the elf, still warm, and he broke it and went to cast it to the waiting, hungry wolves but at that moment the great eagle who was King Thorondor, swooped down. With anger and valour the eagle clawed mercilessly at the head of the enemy but the helm absorbed most; yet one talon passed through the crown and scared Morgoth deeply and ever after he bore that scar, a twisted feature to add to his already twisted face.

Thorondor took the corpse of Fingolfin and flew south and wounded Morgoth watched with fury. He limped away as he did ever after. The body was laid upon a mountain peak, north of the hidden valley of Gondolin and Turgon built a cairn over his father’s body and none went near it.

And there Fingolfin lay until Beleriand was consumed by the seas.

Here follows the tale of the violent meeting of the Sons of Fëanor and Beren, Lúthien and the Hound Huan.

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Of Lúthien’s Admirers

Happening across Lúthien whilst hunting, Celegorm and Curufin kidnapped her for Celegorm had become enamoured and hoped Thingol, her father, would give him her hand in marriage. However, Huan who afore had been faithful to Celegorm freed her and the two went to aid Beren in his quest for a Silmaril. But as they attempt to fulfil this quest, Beren, Lúthien and the Hound Huan encounter Celegorm and Curufin.

The pounding of hooves shook the earth as the two elves sought the lovers and the Hound. Ill-thoughts dwelt in their minds as they closed in on Beren and Lúthien. Yet as they neared, their steeds whinnied and turned but Curufin leant down, his mighty arm seizing Lúthien as she fled and throwing her over the bow of his saddle. He gloated and made to take flight but at that moment, brave Beren sprang onto the speeding horse of Curufin in a Leap that is renowned amongst Men and Eves. He fastened his arms around the rider, tightening around the elf’s throat. However, under the weight of this struggle the horse buckled, casting those that it bore to the ground. They crashed to the grass, Beren falling upon Curufin and, clasping the elf’s throat in his fingers, he squeezed tight causing the elf to choke for air, his life fleeing from him.

Yet all of a sudden, there came the clamour of heavy hooves as Celegorm charged, spear low, towards Beren. The spear would have run true but mighty Huan leapt before the charging steed, baring fearsome fangs. The horse leapt aside; fear clutching its heart and harsh words did Celegorm cry ‘Curse thee, ignoble Hound! You dare defy thou own master?’
However, words alone he had the courage to send against the angry Hound of Valinor and so he turned away. Beren still clutched the throat of Curufin and would have strangled him thus if Lúthien had not stood before him with the word, ‘Forget your anger, Barahir’s son, do not the work of the Orcs for his day shall come. Now make your peace and let us begone from this evil place.’

Noble Beren heeded her, but disarmed him and took his coat of mail and swift steed. Now he dragged him to his feet and cast him away crying, ‘Begone foolish traitor, and let your lust mellow in exile. Go and do no longer the toil of the spawn of Morgoth, instead do deeds proud as done before.’

As Curufin fled to his brother’s side, Celegorm retorted, ‘Farewell and far get you gone! Better to die here in this endless expanse than taste our blades. You shall never clasp a Silmaril. Farewell once more and go with a curse on thy life, may it be bitter and short!’

Yet as he turned to ride towards the horizon, Curufin strung an arrow to his bow and let it fly at the retreating back of Lúthien. Yet with a loud bark the mighty Hound leapt and caught it in his shining teeth; however in swift pursuit came a second and Huan failed to swipe this one from the air. Distracted by the baying though, Beren turned in time to catch a glimpse of it so swiftly he dived in the projectile’s path and it ploughed through his shoulder sending vermillion flowing fast over the green plains. He fell to the ground and gloating the brothers departed, looking not in sympathy at the man struggling for life.

But Lúthien was at Beren’s side and with many teardrops glistening in her eyes she cleansed the wound, removing the sullied tunic and then she carefully pulled free the deadly dart. To her, Huan brought herbs of healing with which she tended to the man and fair Tinúviel sang over him a song of old that told of war and weaponry and all the sadness it wrought. Steadily brave Beren recovered and much befell him afterwards in the Quest of the Silmaril that won him fairest Lúthien, daughter of the starry twilight.

Here follows the tale of the final clash between the Hound Huan and the Wolf Carcharoth.

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Of The Hunting of the Wolf

Compelled to destroy Carcharoth, the Wolf of Morgoth, Beren embarks on a final hunt, leaving his wife Lúthien behind but accompanied by other noble figures. In a quiet clearing Beren with the mighty Hound of Valinor, Huan, and the King of Doriath and father of Lúthien, Thingol, wait for the Wolf to appear.

Thingol looked hastily around, his eyes searching the shadows, ‘Where is Huan?’

One-handed Beren looked around, but he did not perceive either his missing companion or the bloodthirsty Wolf. Suddenly a deafening baying sounded from the vegetation and elf and man spun around, bearing weapons. However, it seemed the evil beast had evaded the Hound for all of a sudden Carcharoth leapt from a thicket of thorns, pouncing upon Thingol, biting deep, and spreading terrible vermillion across the moonlit grass. Beren rounded upon him, a sharp spear angled towards the Wolf’s heart.

Nonetheless, nimble Carcharoth rolled away from the glimmering point, and snarling with hungry malice in his terrible eyes, he jumped at Beren, knocking the spear from his hands and sinking deadly fangs into the man’s breast. Beren cried out, blood fountaining to the heavens. However from the darkness of the undergrowth the mighty Hound leapt, emanating a howl within which sang the horns of Oromë and the fury of the Valar. Carcharoth released wounded Beren, rounding upon the Hound of Valinor, bearing teeth of steel. The Wolf leapt upon the Hound, claws biting deep and fangs slashing across fur. Yelps and muffled howls rang out as the beasts raged until at last Carcharoth broke from the furious toil of bloodshed and retreated a few paces, his hungry eyes fixed upon those of Huan. Thus staring at one another, they waited for each other to strike.

Thingol, the flow of scarlet from his wound stemmed, now looked upon Beren who was gravely wounded. He tended the bloody tears with fatherly care, even if he foresaw the end of his daughter’s beloved husband.
Now Carcharoth let out a fearsome roar, echoing the malice of Morgoth and hunger of the Wolf. He leapt at Huan and in the bloody struggle that followed the earth trembled to the cries of Carcharoth and when they next drew apart, deep gashes were clear amidst their dark fur. Then they furiously clashed once more, and Huan’s teeth delved deep into the throat of evil Carcharoth, at last the Wolf fell back, blood spurting and life fleeing his malicious soul. There the Wolf perished.

And Huan collapsed to the ground also, for his wounds were also fatal. However in one last effort the mighty Hound of Valinor dragged himself across to Beren and to the dying mortal he spoke a few last words, a fond farewell. Beren did not reply, tears glinted in his eyes, much had he lost, he could not see a future with his beloved wife, his eyes darkened. Finally he placed a hand on the shaggy head of the Hound and Huan spoke no more, passing beyond and into peaceful death.

It came at last that Mablung and Beleg came to this scene and wept, they had accompanied the hunters but had not been present at the death of the man and Hound. And Beleg tore open the belly of Carcharoth for he sought the Silmaril which long ago had been lost when the evil Wolf bit the hand of Beren which had clasped it. He found it thus, amidst a stomach of flame the hand resided, undamaged, yet as he touched it disintegrated into naught to reveal a shining gem, unique in appearance, beautiful.

Now Mablung fearfully snatched it from the fiery stomach and took to Beren, pressing it into his only hand. And at last Beren had at last the strength to speak, ‘Now is the Quest achieved, and my doom full-wrought,’ his vision clouded and he breathed his last.

Here follows the tale of Glaurung, father of Dragons, and Azaghâl, King of Dwarves.

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Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad – Of Glaurung and Azaghâl

The Fifth Battle of the War of the Jewels, the terrible Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad – the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. In this fray, hope has deserted the armies of light and now the Noldor flee with the dragons of Morgoth in close pursuit, yet at this moment the mighty Dwarves of Belegost aided them in their plight, forming a rearguard and here this tale tells of the Dwarves’ defence...

A wall of silver against a storm of flame, a stampede of dragons, scarlet tongues flickering across their teeth as hungrily they pursued the running flesh.

And then it was one in the midst of many, for alone stood Glaurung, his brood were slain or routed towards the three peaks in the black north and now Glaurung was encircled.

However, he was strong, nay he was the most potent of them all, he was the eldest, the father of all Úruloki, and none could defeat his might. Surrounded, his anger only intensified and he let out torrents of flame that suffocated the air. His tail lashed out, sending dwarves flying through the air, wails splitting the ears of those who heeded them. The dwarves retaliated with all their ferocity, their heavy axes arcing down upon the scales of the powerful foe. Glaurung was merely irritated, spinning around fast and sending his tail through the ranks of dwarves leaving behind a wake of blood.

The dwarves withdrew, signalling orders to each other and Glaurung looked about him, wondering where the steel would strike from next. Azaghâl, King of Belegost, charged forwards, bearing a mighty polearm, which he brought down hard upon the tail of the beast. It shrieked but the wound was not deep and Glaurung demonstrated this by swiping the mighty king aside. The dragon then wheeled about and bellowed a breath of blazing bright air. The dwarves recoiled, though bore no injury for sturdy masks, horrific to behold, warded off the intense heat of the flames. Encouraged by the thickness of their tough armour and sharp weapons they advanced again, striking again the mighty yet fearsome beast where its armour was weakest. It roared and reared onto two legs, and the Naugrim surged beneath it, pikes high and striking its weak breast until vermillion spilled from its body.

Glaurung whipped around in a circle once more, striking many foes to the bloody ground, including the Dwarven King. Azaghâl rolled from his breast and saw his opponent staring down upon him, teeth glittering like diamonds in the dark, eyes like the jewels in Morgoth’s crown, scales of gold against inky heavens. Like a lizard upon a sunlit wall, it skittered across the ground until the mighty Lord of the Naugrim lay trapped beneath and triumphant it raised its head to the skies and let free a jet of dazzling orange.

Yet suddenly, its cry was cut short, replaced with a terrible wail of agony that was ear-splitting to all who heard, for lo! beneath its weak belly, the great sovereign had thrust his hardy dagger deep into the creature’s chest, belching crimson out across the King. Wounded, Glaurung was filled with fear and so fled and his brood pursued, sharing in the dread.

However, Azaghâl had stuck too late. He lay crushed upon the scarlet field of defeat, his life draining away until it all fled from his body, passing west over wide seas and potent storms. Then at last the grey rain curtains of one world passed and the green country rose up and there at last were the mighty mountains of the west; a fair sight to rival the mightiest mansion of the dwarves. There too rose up the halls of Aulë and there Azaghâl would rest until the world would be made anew and he would aid in its rebuilding.

And upon the crimson field of death, the Naugrim rose up the body of their sovereign upon a bier and carried him with great reverence from the plain of battle.

Here follows the tale of Fingon and Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs.

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Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad – Of Fingon and Gothmog

The Fifth Battle of the War of the Jewels, the terrible Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad – the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, in this fray, the races had seen hope dwindle, the traitors in their ranks had shown their true colours and they had faced greater numbers than expected until at last doom had befallen the races of light. But in this turmoil a clash of titans arose, and here tells of the mighty fray between darkness and light...

The turmoil of war, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying, and all around was darkness, pierced by terrible flame; and in the midst of this blackness stood Fingon, child of mighty Fingolfin.

Alone stood the High King of the Noldor, for ruin had befallen his valiant guard and towering above him stood the slayer himself: Gothmog. The valiant lord of elves was undaunted by this foe, surging forwards, shimmering blade held high. The Lord of Balrogs let forth his whip of flame and it sliced through the air leaving a wake of flames. Yet the elf’s shield arose and the thong lashed harmless past, Fingon now leapt high, a figure of silver against a backdrop of eternal night, his sword was golden as it plunged forwards, but then the whip made to seize him and Fingon was suddenly cast aside, a scolding line visible across his breastplate.

He smashed to the bloody ground, pain stabbing through his flesh. A shadow hovered over him but nimbly he rolled aside and the fiery foot fell upon earth alone. Now Fingon struck, his sword stabbing deep into the Balrog’s foot, causing the creature to roar in fury. However, his victory was bittersweet for a moment later the whip of the horrifying creature swiped him aside as a man would a fly. He rolled to the earth and the Balrog towered over him, terrible to behold. Weakened, Fingon rolled onto his back and saw the demon of fire upon him, his terrible axe descending towards the High King. Yet, Fingon rose his sword and the mighty black axe was blocked by the steel. Now the elf drew a blade from his belt and with his free hand sent it ploughing into the demon’s wrist, suddenly the Balrog recoiled, overwhelmed with agony.

Fingon recovered and charged forth, his blade fell and sliced across the demon’s breast revealing the fiery blood within. A roar sounded, breaking the inners of the elf’s ears. Yet undeterred, the King stepped forwards, blade ready. Gothmog came at him once more and many times did weapon clash and much blood was spilt in that terrible fray. And Gothmog’s fury was further aroused and his attempts to cast the elf to doom were increasingly wild. So with each unruly strike, Fingon sought the unguarded flesh of his mighty foe and then struck hard until Gothmog too was wrapped in pain.

Gothmog stepped forwards, infuriated and defiant, and lo! he was aflame, his black flesh wreathed in burning bronzen flames that sent up clouds of smoke. Fingon did not tremble, his heart was strong and no act of intimidation could fell his bravery. The creature swung his axe forwards and it clashed with the blade of Fingon in a flurry of sparks, there for a moment their eyes met, rubies of flame against pupils of valour. Then blades withdrew, but only to strike again and about them a gathering grew of the victorious legions of darkness, though not all were content to observe alone.

As Fingon nimbly darted aside from a vicious swipe, the moment came. His blade was poised to strike the deadly beast’s heart when the whip wrapped around him as snake would do so to constrict its prey. The mighty elf was torn from his duel by some spineless being that mercilessly held him in its coils as the Lord of Balrogs towered over the prey. The demon of terror showed no chivalry, and his axe fell from the heavens, descending towards Fingon.

The valiant elf, overcome at last, was wreathed in agony, the thong of flames scolded his flesh and he knew the end was nigh, his eyes squeezed closed, welcoming his fate and with a cold hard jolt it came and agony spasmed through his body as his mighty helm was hewed. Then all went black, his mind drifted from the present, rising as a fiery spirit of blinding white flame, a lonely star in an empty sky that saw the darkness closing in around itself. Then all faded to stormy heavens, a curtain of falling silver that parted to reveal all well and true, a far green country under a swift sunrise, a place of rest until the world would renew.

Yet upon the bloody plain of the Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad the darkness remained and as all fled from the terror and might of Angmar, the Lord of Balrogs and his fearsome followers denied the valiant warrior his rest, hewing his corpse until it was a chaos of scarlet, pounded into the crimson soil. His fair banner, royal blue and fairest silver, fell into the earth where it was trod to ruin and the blue were as black and the silver as blood.

Thus the field was lost, and though some still defended the Pass of Sirion, they fared no better, many more died, and at last a great storm rose from the West and raged across the plains, barren of the living.

Here follows the tale of Glorfindel's Stand against a Balrog after the ruin of Gondolin

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Stand of Glorfindel

Screams rent the air, tears flooded the pass, wives were turned widows, children to orphans, it was the end and nothing could ever be the same again: Gondolin was no more.

Behind them, a pinnacle of smoke rose up, abandoning the fair fields of Tumladen and the spectacular Square of the King from which a mighty tower rose to the heavens. All Gondolin was ablaze, the houses were in ruin and the walls broken, and all this was now being steadily shrouded in a cloud of choking ash in which the spawn of Morgoth flourished.

And from the devastation fled a small band of refugees, flying through a Secret Way and then over the Pass of Cirith Thoronath that snaked through the peaks under the shadow of the Christhorn. In their wake was a stream of bodies, those who had succumbed to their wounds or had fallen in the stampede, their bodies bruised by the sandals of those who had not watched their path. Glorfindel stopped once to help up a boy who bore a limp for his ankle had broken as he had been trampled. Yet as the elf of the House of the Golden Flower aided the orphan, the child cried out for a bolt of evil struck his heart and he slumped into a puddle of mud and blood. Glorfindel gritted his teeth and drew his sword and looked up the pass; there, without any explanation of how they happened upon the refugees, rallied a company of orcs in the shadow of a mighty Balrog.

Glorfindel charged forwards, sword high, poised to strike. He brought it down upon the neck of an orc and black blood spurted upwards, a fountain of impurity. He stepped back, his blade skilfully parrying a flurry of blades then twisting around to fell his assailants in one fluid motion.

The battle raged on, the outnumbered refuges steadily losing numbers, yet then a cry rose up, ‘Thorondor! Lo the eagles are come!’ Thus, the odds changed, the orcs fled shrieking from the battle. Glorfindel cried that the survivors of the Fall of Gondolin should move on, and so with reluctance they did, leaving two alone on the Pass of the Eagles’ Cleft, Glorfindel and the Balrog.

Like lightning and thunder, they clashed and the dark demon let forth his thong of flame but Glorfindel sprung aside, his blade gliding down in one graceful effort, cutting the whip in two. Infuriated the demon advanced, a fiery footstep falling upon the ground of the pass, its blade of bronzen flame falling towards the elf. Nimble-footed Glorfindel darted to the left; his shimmering blade reflected the flame as it slashed across the extended arm of the spawn of Morgoth.

A roar rent the ash-strewn air and the Chief of the House of the Golden Flower darted behind his foe, his blade striking its back and his foot forcing it hard from the ridge. It fell forwards, over the edge yet it did not reach its end. A claw seized the edge and shrouded in darkness, the thundering beast rose from the depths as if wings of blackness had risen it from the depths and cast him back upon the pass. As it landed, a potent kick sent the elf flying backwards but fleet-footed Glorfindel came to rest crouched before his foe and he valiantly sprung forwards, sword flashing silver and gold as it plunged into his foes- but no! As he evaded the beast’s terrible sword, its whip caught his foot even though only half of it remained. The mighty warrior was cast to the ground, yet he did not falter, rising bruised but strong, determined to thwart his foe’s murderous task.

The two titans simply stared at one another first, each hungry for a different aim. Suddenly Glorfindel darted right, and the beast brought its blade around towards his left flank, yet he had anticipated this, rolling away and in a fluid motion thrust his blade deep into his opponent’s ankle. Another roar shattered the silence and it was like thunder in the heavens. Lightning-fast Glorfindel was thus forced to evade a series of furious assaults yet he was a Chieftain of the Elves and his valour was superior to any darkness.

It came again that he stood before his enemy, and the demon resolved to be increasingly wary; and so as Glorfindel charged forwards the Balrog stepped back and Glorfindel’s attack fell on air. Fiercely the fiery foe lashed out with its foot yet the dexterous elf rolled from its path and thrust his blade upwards, stabbing deep into flesh. This roar shook the earth as the evil beast staggered back, its foot hovering over the edge. Glorfindel surged towards it, his blade slashing over its breast such that with a scream it fell backwards. However the elf found no triumph for too late did he see the incoming hand and he found himself seized by his hair of gold and now he was falling, black rock flashing past, the wind opposing his fall but naught could stop him. A sudden unimaginable pain and all was the darkness of evil storm that rolled aside like a curtain parting to reveal grassy plains as far as the eye could see under a spectacular sunrise.

In the aftermath, it came that King Thorondor, the mightiest of eagles, sought the body of the valiant elf, and bore him to the side of the Pass of Cirith Thoronath. There, under a tall cairn, he was buried and in years after a patch of fertile grass surrounded it, amongst which golden flowers grew; and there it is said that he rested until the world was changed – though some accounts suggest otherwise but such are not mine to tell.

The Third Age

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

This is my first entry, you may recognise the Elf, for the Elvish I refer you to Arwen Undomiel's Two Towers Film Translations.

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The Host of the Eldar

Rain fell upon the battlements of Helms Deep.

‘A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn, an uben tanatha le faelas.’

I stared down the shaft of my arrow at the great host of the servants of Saruman as they surged towards the wall, pikes erect. But then they stopped and for a moment there was silence but for the patter of heavy rain upon armour; then the noise began: the tremendous, repeated clash of over ten thousand pikes upon hard ground quaked the heart of men.

But we were calm, the last host of the Eldar come to defend the Hornburg until the end, to whatever end. We were confident though that if we fired are arrows true, and if we cut our swords with strength, we would hold back the spawn of Saruman. However in the Keep I feared for our allies, noble was Theoden, King of Rohan, but his soldiers were too weak to compete with such reckless hate and their heart had not the courage to stand against such odds. And fear already gripped them in an iron fist for a shaft shot alone from the Keep and embedded itself in the throat of an Isengarder and the beasts of the White Hand roared furiously in reply, and charged forwards.

‘Tangado a chadad!’

I readied an arrow, gripping the shaft tight and swiftly drawing back the bowstring;

‘Faeg i-varv... dîn na lanc a nu ranc.’

I took careful aim.

‘Leithio i philinn!’

I released the cord with a twitch of my fingers and the arrow was forced forth into darkness and I prepared another shaft from my quiver, releasing it at will. And soon more arrows were hurled over my head from behind the wall. Countless projectiles I released into the ranks of Uruks before I heard the cry of ‘Pendraith!’ I loosed my last arrow and unsheathed my fine blade, thrusting it into the menacing creature before it had time to escape the ladder upon which it was carried. The first creatures felled my comrades with devastating ability before they were overpowered, crossbow bolts rained down upon us but were few in number and inaccurate.

Elegant slashes of my kindred blade felled Uruks with ease for they were slow to dismount the ladders. Soon, though, they pressed onto the battlements and-

Suddenly an explosion devastated the walls, momentarily I was blinded by the flash and deafened by the roar of the devilry of the enemy. I was hurled to the stone and only an urge to defend my allies gave me renewed strength. Fiercely I charged to an Uruk and forced him from the walls, with my regained sword I sliced my way to aid a fellow Elf but reached the comrade late. A moment of despair was replaced with an anger and I was lost in the battle.

‘Haldir! Nan Barad!’ It was not until the order was directed at myself that I heeded it, I turned to look at Aragorn behind the breached defences. I nodded then passed the order to my fellow Elves. I turned then to attack an Uruk and as I felled the creature I felt a fierce jolt of pain as another Isengarder wounded me. Weakly, I stabbed my assailant and it fell to the floor. All were running, running for their lives from the great wave of death and suddenly cold, painful steel cut down my spine and I collapsed to my knees.

And all around me was death, some ran but most had fallen, the battlements were paved in corpses. The world of men would fail, the Elves would depart and none would remember the fall of the Hornburg. Pain terrorised my torso and I felt myself weaken.

A futile stand was made here today.

Agony plagues me, I yearn for eternal peace. Someone supports me, a blurred face. Peace. Peace now.

The darkness takes hold.

A perpetual sleep... sleep...

sleep- - -

Here follows the tale of the fall of Dol Guldur by the forces of Celeborn and Galadriel:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Hill of Sorcery

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Part I

The golden leaves of the great Mallorn trees fluttered to the ground as a strong wind brushed through Lothlórien.

I glanced up at the sky, partly hidden by the trees and suddenly shivered, I turned to faced east, readying my bow, ‘Nad no ennas,’ I whispered and my companion, a young Elf named Sellion, looked carefully in the direction I was facing.

‘I gwilth na-dûr.’

It was the twenty-second day of March, Third Age 3019 and the sky was indeed dark again; a black cloud had spread from the east and twice before we had repulsed it and the Orcs that travelled below it, but it kept returning.

Sellion blew on a small horn and the sound echoed in the trees, alerting the army of Eldar that war was once again upon us. Soon our foe presented itself: a great host of Orcs and trolls and wolves – and even some foul Goblins riding upon the corrupted beasts. I notched an arrow to my bow and stared down the shaft at a suitable target. I released the projectile and it sliced through the air, a loud howl rang out then silence but for the noise of the servants of the Eye.

A new noise arrived, the organised footsteps of elven infantry, followed by an equal – if not greater – amount of archers. Suddenly an Orcish arrow flew through the air, embedding itself in the chest of my companion, he cried out, blood pouring from the wound, staining the wood of the platform. I looked towards the projectile’s source and saw not one but twenty archers targeting the lone elf in the trees.

I jumped down from the platform in the tree, feeling the wind on my back as an arrow sped past. I took my place amongst the swordsmen. My bow, a smaller weapon for scouting, was slung over my back and I pulled my sword from its scabbard. It was a long weapon designed far differently from those of men. Its handle was about as long as the blade which was finely wrought and engraved with many words in a script that few now used. I held it tight in both hands as the great hoard of Orcs surged through the trees. A cloud of shafts rained down upon the creatures but as the creatures drew closer they stopped. I braced myself but saw that the Orcs were more afraid than I. It appeared that the arrow fire had seriously damaged their morale and only their confidence in their numbers kept them going.

Finally the Orcs came in reach of our blades and there was a flash of silver as the countless elven blades sliced through the air then cut through flesh. Three swings of a blade and the Orcs were routing, and the now the trolls trampled their way towards us, raising their terrifying weapons above their heads. I stepped back, fear clutching my heart. Someone shouted to duck and I obeyed, looking up to see a storm of shafts stab into the servants of Sauron. The trolls roared and we started hacking our blades into their torsos before the shock and pain wore off.

Fifty elves were lost that day, most fallen to arrows or a troll’s club. Celeborn had reached a decision, that the source of the attacks should be destroyed: Dol Guldur.

*

It happened a week before we departed to begin the siege, it was just past midday on March the 25th, when all stopped and looked towards the Land of Shadow. A terrible, ear-splitting cry swept in all directions by a great wind of death that originated from the collapsing Dark Tower of Mordor was heard by all; and all turned south and saw a flash of flame, minute for it was so many leagues away but to an Elven eye it was clear.

And we rejoiced for the Ring was destroyed.

But it was not over yet.

*

In the midst of a ring of dead trees lay the Hill of Sorcery. The Orc road led to a great black gateway constructed with the rough architecture of the creatures of the Necromancer. But it was still strong despite the ages gone by and it was well manned. After passing through the gate, the route led up a long straight staircase through the rock and to the first of many structures built to house the soldiers of the Necromancer. The road continued through that building and out into the courtyard below the low tower. The path led through the tower then up another flight of stairs to the Great Hall of the Necromancer and there climbed up a long spiralling staircase to the tallest tower. There, between three spires not unlike those of Barad-dûr the route entered a chamber in which stood the Throne of the Necromancer from which one could see all. There, during the many years between the loss of the One Ring and the driving of the Necromancer from Mirkwood sat the Sorcerer himself, the spirit of the Dark Lord, Sauron.

As we surrounded the hill, the Orcs upon the battlements shivered and not because of the cold. They had no leader, no Dark Lord nor Nazgûl. But there were more than Orcs within those walls, as we drew near there was a rustle in the steep rocky slopes and black terrors scurried from their caves. I swallowed and obeyed the order to notch an arrow to my bow. I drew back the cord and released it upon command and did the same tirelessly until my quiver was empty. By then the ram had reached the gateway which was now devoid of defenders and had battered down the gate. We surged through slaying the orcs that fled from us but then we faced a greater barrier.

Bloated by peaceful years of endless feasting, they towered above us: black creatures that stared at us through many eyes and approached with many legs. Great Spiders, hungry for new meat, cut through our ranks or jumped upon us from above. But they were few in number and overpowered once they were distracted by the scent of fresh blood and so we moved on though greatly diminished in number.

But we passed through the barracks unhindered and none opposed us in the courtyard. But when we reached the second level of Dol Guldur another Gate stood against us, open, inviting us in.

And we took the bait.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Part II

Sun was setting in Middle-Earth casting an orange glow upon the trees of Mirkwood.

We poured through the open gateway and immediately it clanged shut behind us, leaving the majority of the army behind. Goblins revealed themselves, flooding out of pits in the ground, I greeted the new enemy with cold steel and they wavered. But still they came and friend and foe fell, blood stained the dead grass and despair gnawed at my mind.

Suddenly the Gate behind us shattered into splinters (several of which embedded themselves into my exposed neck and legs). The army of Eldar surged through the gateway and the Goblins screamed and routed, joyfully we ran after them, some of us down into the maze of passages, others onto the walls or some, including myself, into the Great Hall before us. But before I went forth I glanced back for I wondered what had brought down the gate, there was no ram. There was a crack of thunder and I looked up, a storm was brewing.

We opened the the doors to the structure that towered above all and entered. Inside was a spacious hall designed for an unknown purpose. Orcs cowered in the corners, fearing us, some tried to climb the walls to the roof which was numerous feet above but our arrows reached them. One last passage remained.

In the centre of the hall a staircase spiralled upwards, passing above the roof of the hall. I climbed it wearily, for that was my order. Finally I reached the summit of the tallest tower, dizziness and fatigue plagued me and I hoped there would be no fight.

The stairs entered a small chamber in the midst of which stood a great throne, too large for an elf. A black robe rested on it but it was empty save for ash. ‘What is it?’ a young companion asked.

‘I can only guess: here dwelt one of the Nazgûl, Khamûl the Easterling was his name. He guarded the Hill of Sorcery for his Lord until the end,’ I suggested and looked at the sphere that rested upon the folds of the cloak, ‘A palantír!’ I exclaimed and I took it in my hands.

A series of scenes flashed in front of my eyes: the face of a man I recognised for he had passed through Lórien several years ago, I saw a great tower falling and the mouth of Orodruin exploding and then the scenes ended and all I saw was the faint image of two aged hands, burning as they clasped some far away seeing stone. And the image did not pass.

*

A horn echoed in the distance, we were being recalled.

An hour later under the stormy clouds, the weakened Elven army stood staring at Dol Guldur. Alone before the walls stood the Lady Galadriel, her hair rippling in the wind and her arms raised to the sky. And then the clouds broke and a torrential gale battered the battlements of Dol Guldur, winds tore at the towers, lightning struck down the stone. Then a current of air, far greater than I had ever seen before, coiled about the Hill, consuming all that was not clean and the ground trembled.

When the wind finally dissipated, naught was left upon the Hill of Sorcercy and no shadow was cast upon Mirkwood and so the cleansed forest was renamed: Eryn Lasgalen, the Wood of Greenleaves.

I have enclosed a model I created of Dol Guldur based on one of John Howe's images which is also enclosed. It requires Google Sketchup.

The Fourth Age

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Here follows another story, this one briefly follows the subjects of Durin VII, the Dwarf King who took back Khazad-dûm in the Fourth Age:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Mansion of the Dwarves

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge’s fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still in sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

There was silence in the blackness of our beloved Moria, no pick upon stone, no song of Dwarven tongue, silence.

‘DWARVES!’ our King roared, raising his axe above his helm, ‘This was once our finest residence the true Khazad-dûm, now let it be so, once again!’ A bellowing of approval came from us and he continued, ‘May the fine halls see once again the light of a million residents! May the deep mines hear the sound of dwarven picks upon fine stone! May music return to the great Mansion of Dwarves!’ The King took a breath, ‘Soldiers, CHARGE!’

With a last, defiant roar of ‘Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!’, the warriors of Durin VII, surged forth into the great halls of Dwarrowdelf. The goblins, each one as tall as us, trembled in fear as the great legions of Dwarves approached. Not until we were a few feet away did the first few ranks waver and flee and our sharpened axes fell down upon their routing behinds. But the foul creatures turned, they were wielding short curved blades, rusty but recently sharpened. With no way to parry the oncoming blow, I stepped back hurriedly and then, once the Goblin blade had fallen upon thin air, moved forward, bringing my axe down on the creatures bare cranium. I kicked the corpse to the ground and stood upon it to gain some height; then, like a Dwarf possessed, I swung my axe in a horizontal arc sending four foul foes flying into their comrades and then I leapt into the confusion.

Heavily armoured in the finest mail of the Lonely Mountain, the Goblin blades were of little use. Once or twice the scavenged steel of the Orcs penetrated the armour and succeeded in felling a companion but the Goblins fell in their hundreds. My axe was blackened by blood, fatigue battled with my mind but still I fought and the Dwarrowdelf was wet with the bodily fluids of Orcs. There we cleansed Moria of the Goblins and it became Khazad-dûm once again. Ever after light shone into those fine halls, miners returned to the blackest of pits and Mithril was brought up from the depths once again and made fair the shattered gate of Minas Tirith. And the ancient song of Moria, Khazad-dûm, was revived and a new ending was written:

But after countless battles fought,
with Khazad steel so finely wrought,
after many years of darkness past,
the children of Durin returned at last,
to their vastest realm with countless tomb,
to the Dwarven halls of Khazad-dûm.