Utúlie’n aurë by Ar-Feiniel

Utúlie’n aurë

Utúlie’n aurë.

A cold breeze cuts across frozen hills.
Cloaked beneath the trees,
Armed with metal teeth
His army waits,
Seething with silent fury.
Hundreds of thousands
Elves and Men
Long suffered, plagued by fear,
Of the Dark Power of the World.

But no longer.

They are arrayed
In splendid mail and sharpened swords,
Hidden in leaves,
Battle-ready.
Second force, his cousins’ might
That would catch Morgoth’s army
Between hammer and anvil
Between metal and flame
Leaving nought but death.

The day has come.

Black clouds billow across the plains
As though creatures of nightmares
Prepare for a feast.
Roars and shrieks
That chill the blood
Issue forth from those
Three ominous peaks,
Where Russandol once spent despairing days,
Filled with minutes that lasted
Longer than millennia.
And now from those dungeons
Of unimaginable horror

Morgoth prepares for war.

And the Elves answer
With clear ringing trumpets
Like the rising of the moon.
Unsought-for, forgotten,
His brother’s host arrives
As Silmarils glint in the morning light,
The Hidden Folk of the Hidden Realm
March like wrathful angels,
Their eyes reflect death.
Banners dance in the wind,
Shields burn the eyes.
So at last they meet again
For the last time,
The valiant High King and
His brother, called the Wise.

The day has come.

He think they are assembled.
To the east he imagines
his cousins’ wrath kindled,
The deadly fire that burns in Russandol’s gaze
As he spurs his mighty army onwards for the
Fifth Battle
And, he hopes, the last.
He looks to the rising sun,
Imagines the dust rising
Beneath the hooves of the
Colossal Fëanorian host.

Auta í lómë.

--

The field is lost.

The hoards advance,
A dark wave that crashes
With fury and vengeance
Upon the remnants of his scattered host.
His brother retreats to
The last hidden sanctuary.
His brothers flee for their lives
And wander as fallen leaves
Tossing in the wind.

Last of all Fingon stands alone.

His guard dead around him,
The countless bodies of the slain
Are as a motionless swarm of flies
Swimming in scarlet pools,
Dyeing the earth crimson.
He is alone.
His white helm gleams
Through the fog of death.
His eyes burn with fell fire
His lips twist in a
Triumphant grimace.
He is Fingon the Valiant, High King of the Noldor.
He looks out into certain doom,
Breaths the scent of rotting corpses,
Faces down a monster of shadow and flame,
And fears nothing.

Neither death, nor pain, nor utter humiliation,
Loss nor despair, not Doom itself,
Shall Findekáno flee from.

Fingon stands, his head high.
A sword held loft in a tireless hand.
A shield with his crest, smeared with grime and blood,
He holds tight.

He duels with the Balrog.
Deals vicious cuts,
Receives savage burns.
The black smoke rises, poisonous fumes smothering.
He lunges, parries, stabs, twists,
Fearless, foolhardy,
Fighting to the desperate end
Until with a blinding flash
Of agony beyond imagination
The world goes dark.

Blood pools around him.
His helm is cleaved,
His eyes vacant,
His body spread-eagled and broken.
His spirit is gone to Mandos’ Halls
Unto world’s end.

But the deeds that he has done
Shall be the matter of song
Until the last days of Arda.

Utúlie’n aurë.