These Tears by Elvewen

These Tears

Read These Tears

Time and the tide and the wild waves rolling;

Night and the wind and the long gray dawn.

Fog and the storm and the long bell tolling;

Bones in the deep and the brave men gone.

She stood at the very edge of the cliff. Her dark hair streaming out behind her, beating against her face. The waves below crashed onto the cliffs with unambiguous fury, roaring as they beat against the cliff wall - tumultuous, powerful, unceasing, immortal. Their fury, their incessant motion was mockery to the state of her mind. Her mind was surprisingly blank. She felt so numb.

For the past seven days, she had known incessant agony. Seven days she lived in a state of utter shock. She did not know what else to do. Pathetic.

A bitter smile curled up her lips. Why did she smile? Nienna was she who wept. Laughter had no place in her life. But then, this was not joyous laughter was it? It was tinged with grief and the sharp edges of pain. Was it not the height of irony that she, who wept for the sorrows of all Arda, could find no tears for Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears?

She felt so dry, so parched.

For every moment of the past seven days, she endured agony. She had known their excruciating pain, their mind numbing fear, their heart breaking grief. From the fourth day of the battle, that was all that filled her thoughts. Emotions rushing into her mind with the force of a tidal wave, leaving her breathless, gasping for air. But there was no time for that. No time as thousands of distorted screams, cries forced their way into her thoughts, each grappling for dominance. In each thought, she saw one part of the battle – of the torture and slaying of Gelmir, the capture of Gwindor, the death of Haldir and Fingon’s retreat, the treachery of Uldor and Ulfang……………And she froze. Her face losing all color as this new image reached her thoughts. O Eru, she cried silently. What did I do to deserve this? She tried not to pull at her own hair, tried to block it out – to no avail.

She felt Fingon’s pain at the slaying of his guard, and she could only look on helplessly; utterly helplessly, as he faced the Balrog’s whips. His rage at his vulnerabilty and his fear she felt; and in the end, his resignation for a fight lost before it was even begun. From the thoughts of others, she saw the High King of the Noldor beat into dust with the maces of the balrogs. His silver banners trod into the mire of his blood. She felt Turgon’s anguish, the utter despair of those who were near him.

She felt sick.

She did not know of another time in her life when she felt more useless. It was not as if this was the only heart breaking thing that happened. This grief, their grief, was not exclusive to this battle. But never before did she have to deal with the hopes and dreams of so many thousands of elves and men crushed so completely, the heart breaking scope of its victory and the totality of its defeat. For the first time in her life, Nienna felt bitter. What did her fellow ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’, know of this matter? Dispassionate reports from Namo? They did not have to deal with this hopelessness, this nerve racking inability to do anything!

More thoughts. Try as she might, Nienna, mighty among the Valar, could not block them out. If this continued, it would drive her insane.

How, how could they be so heartless? Did Varda not hear them cry out to her? Did Namo not care that they begged him for mercy. How could Manwe ignore their pleas that their loved ones be unharmed? How could Aule forget the Noldor – whom he professed to love? How could they not care?  How could they do nothing? How did it come to this?

How disgustingly self righteous, said a taunting, cruel voice in her head. Were you not there when the Doom of the Noldor was decided? What did you do about it? It is your fault it came to this. Your inaction. And the Noldor paid the price for it in blood and in tears.  Your inability to understand, inability to sympathize – you of all people, that is how it came to this.

A single memory blocked the flow of thoughts around her. A memory of a small, raven haired Vanya, a mere 5 years old when she was brought to her halls. She had found the child at the height of Telperion’s waxing. Hugging her knees and sitting by the steps leading to her halls, staring at the pathways that lead to the mansion from the gates. She felt the thoughts of the child, her reluctance to be there; she felt abandoned, for she had cried and begged that she not be sent there.

She wondered where that child was now. Was she safe? Was she still alive? And she had professed to love Elvelindë. Just like Aule and the Noldor.

She felt something wet touch her cheek. It began raining. Good. At least she did not feel so parched anymore. It felt good. And then she felt it, with the force of a hammer’s blow, Maitimo learning of Findekano’s death.  And she remembered the only time when his grief equaled this; and had she not wept then?

Her face was wet. But it was more than rainwater than wet it.

And at last, the dam broke. And the sorrow held within them, held back by shock, tumbled forth rushing out and gathering greater force as it did, lashing out like a cornered beast. Her legs buckled and she fell to the ground.

She drew her knees to her face and she wept.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The poem in the beginning was in my English textbook but the author was anonymous.