sown as seed in the dark by Melesta

sown as seed in the dark

A stubborn bush of yarrow swayed idly in the thick smog that stretched across the plains. Its stalks reached eagerly for the choked light of the Sun as if it had skin yearning for comforting warmth. A single, solitary soul it made upon the ashen field. A dainty whiteness rebelling amid the arid scars across the land, marking the path of terrible, fiery waves.

The mouths of Thangorodrim spat flames no more, but the ground shivered still, the charred stones jumping like carp in murky waters.

‘What new evil disturbs the earth now?’ One of the yarrow flowers cried out.

‘It is no evil,’ murmured the vulnerable seeds of grass trembling still beneath the dirt.

‘Who then? Is that not Oromë returned to roam these lands?’

‘None of the Valar, but the King rides upon Rochallor, his great steed. Yea, and wrathful he is, flying ahead as an arrow.’

‘The King? The elven King? The Wise?’ All the flowers of the yarrow stirred, shuffling in their clusters. ‘Here comes the one who summoned us from our long dream! Beneath his marching feet, our kin of old sprang to life.’

A clatter of hooves brought about a storm of winds, and the yarrow was turned to where the King gleamed as a star, clad in silver with his blue shield set with crystals. He smote the brazen doors of Angband, and the music of his horn awoke the dormant plains.

He called and called, his voice a taunt.

At last, the Dark One hearkened to his call, coming as a limb cut out of his Iron Mountains, uncomely and heavy. All of Ard-galen rumbled as thunder, rebelling against his discordant presence.

She breathed strength into the King, the soil rising and dipping, pushing and pulling his body away from Grond’s iron head. The land's breath steamed out in fiery gushes as the Hammer of the Underworld dredged deep wounds into the ground, and it hissed in pain.

The fighting went on night and day, the flowers of the yarrow closing and opening again, but the plains did not sleep, did not rest, and the yarrow rejoiced as the Dark One screamed. Seven times he shrieked in anguish, and each time the yarrow grew, its white flowers bursting open under the mighty song of the King. For the King’s strength was the strength of a mountain river, rushing and swelling with the melting snows under the first warmth of Spring.

But at last, the King fell even as he clove the foot of the enemy with his dying breath, filling the pits of the earth with his blood. Deep it seeped, trailing through rock and dust, reaching the roots of the yarrow.

‘Oh, despair!’ the yarrow wept. ‘Were that Yavanna was here to stretch her green limbs and choke this darkness, but she too has forsaken these lands!’

Ard-galen mourned, and her cries were so profound that they carried through Manwë’s winds up the mountain to the peaks of the Crissaegrim, and called to the King of the Skies.

‘Carry the King away, oh mighty Thorondor, for he belongs to us and not to shadow!’ the plains pleaded, and the great eagle bore the King's body high above the clouds, clawing a ghastly landscape upon the face of the enemy.

The Dark One limped to his hiding hall, and deadly silence fell once again. But death is not truly known to Ennor. An end is only a beginning.

‘Arise now, sisters, from the earth,’ the yarrow called in spite.

The grasses wailed in response, ‘What for, now that our King has passed? Oh, who shall guard our plains, now that his silver trumpets are silent?’

‘Our friend, the Prince, yet lives. A King now he will be,’ shook the yarrow with all its voices as one. ‘Arise now so that his sorrow is lessened. Arise, arise, so that his steps are swift when his battle is renewed.’

Voiceless whispers quivered beneath the dust, and the memory of Ennor was summoned.

‘The hero who alone braved the filth of Thangrodorim,’ squeaked the trampled seeds of a dandelion.

‘The Prince who chased away the dragon that scorched our leaves,’ joined the broken branches of a sage.

‘The King who shall avenge us,’ growled the roots of a dropseed grass.

A defiant bush of yarrow flowered before the Gates of Angband. And slowly, so very slowly, all but imperceptible to the eyes of the Children, mosses began trailing around it. And the seeds of the grasses soon began to sprout, and great ferns unraveled soon after. Last came the sturdy little flowers, poking their heads between the broken rocks as clusters of a rainbow on a rainy day.

Ard-galen, tho Anfauglith it was now called, grew again green, grasses rising even upon the Hill of the Slain, and no force of evil would quench its life fully until all the land was splintered and all its beings were released into Ulmo’s Great Sea.

In water begotten, all living things to water return.

Chapter End Notes

The common yarrow (lat. Achillea millefolium) is a plant that was frequently associated with war and battle in ancient times, and supposedly even Achilles took it with him to treat battle wounds, thus its scientific name. It has a wide range of medicinal uses, healing anything from burns, abrasions, fever, infection, and serving as pain relief. This knowledge is still well known among indigenous people in the US. It is a sturdy plant with a lovely scent that grows anywhere, including where you'd least expect it.

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