The Light is Still There by Aldwen

Chapter 13

FA 587

I rise in a grey twilight of the early hour. Not that the day will grow any brighter; the fumes from Thangorodrim have stolen even the meagre light that was here when we first came. With time, it has become harder and harder to recall that in other places dawn colours the sky every morning, that midday Sun shines bright overhead. In truth, I am not trying to remember it. The memory of light, like all other fair memories, has retreated to a remote corner of my mind.

I pour myself a glass of water and wince at the acrid taste. Water comes from the streamlets flowing down the black faces of the cliffs around our camp. This shoulder of hills, separated from Anfauglith by a low ridge, is the closest place to Moringotto’s fortress where we could fortify our positions and secure provisions for the long siege.

Artanar comes to help me don my armour. He is quiet this morning, more so than ever.

“Moringotto has emptied Angamando,” he says when I look at him with question. I nod. We have come to the end, whatever that might be. Artanar frowns and shifts in his stance. “Before we go out there… you should know… It has been an honour to fight beside you, Aranya. My friend. And … if today…”

“No!” I grip his arm. “Do not say it!” I will not allow a thought of defeat in my heart. I will not allow a thought of losing my best friend. “Please, do not say it,” I repeat in a low voice.

Artanar smiles faintly. “Very well. I will not.”

We step outside and climb the ridge. It takes all my strength of will to keep my face calm and my steps steady at the sight below on the plain. Artanar has spoken the truth; Anfauglith can hardly contain the dark mass of our enemies. Fires glare through the coiling vapours and lightnings flicker above the peaks of Thangorodrim. 

The northern slopes of the mountains facing the plain gleam with the pale sheen of our armour. I stand by my banner; Ingwil’s banner streams in a breeze upon a peak a few hundred steps away. The Vanyar cheer when he appears in his gilded armour. Regret stabs my heart. I have not made peace with my cousin. The Vanyar and the Noldor have fought as separate hosts, and on occasional council meetings we have avoided speaking to one another, unless necessary. From what I know, Ingwil has led his people well. His decisions in battle have been bold, yet carefully weighed, and he has not risked lives needlessly. It would grieve me to leave our enmity smouldering, if today… No, I cut myself short. No thoughts of defeat and death before the battle. 

There is no way back, only forward. My people stand alert, ready to advance. Some of those in the front row have already made the first step, eager for the sign to attack. Faces of those closest to me are serious and determined; their eyes show ice-cold resolution. This must be how my brother stood at the gates of Angamando challenging the Black Foe. I do not believe he rushed into combat blindly, in despair, as some say. Nolofinwë was not like that. Cold fury was so much more like him; restrained anger, directed like deadly arrow to a target. In rage, Fëanáro was fire, and Nolofinwë was ice. What am I? I do not know, but today I stand here for them both.

Suddenly the wind dies and strange silence falls on our host. A gleaming figure stands atop a boulder with upraised hand; countless shapes of light shimmer beside it. Valar and Maiar have shed their garments of Arda and appear in their true forms.

“Eldar of Aman, you have fought valiantly so far.” Eönwë’s voice carries through the still air. “And you shall fight valiantly today! Believe in your strength! Believe in victory!”

A loud cheer follows his words. Thunderous blast of Oromë’s horn, Valaróma, echoes over the plain, the clear ringing of our trumpets joins it. The host starts to move downhill. The final battle is beginning. Either we defeat Moringotto now or the land of Endórë will be forever covered in Darkness, and even Valinórë will not be safe.

***

Flames flicker in the sky. Fire is licking the clouds. The air, full of foul reek, burns in my chest. All around me warriors gasp and struggle for breath. I do not see any more how the host of the West can prevail. The winged dragons circle overhead. Valar and Maiar hold them back but barely. New and new hordes of Orcs and Trolls issue from the gates. We still hold our ground but are heavily outnumbered. We cannot stand much longer. Even so, we shall fight to the last. I raise my sword again and cut down the next Orc, barely paying attention to my opponent’s face. Just another servant of the Enemy. The number of those fallen by my hand has long ceased to matter.

The screeching of dragons grows louder. They circle lower and lower above our heads. Suddenly a mighty roar rends the air, so loud and hideous that we cover our ears. From the low-lying clouds another dragon emerges and crosses the line of defence the Valar have set above us. This new monster is at least ten times the size of the largest of the other beasts. The black scales covering its hideous body gleam in the dusk and reflect the flames. The foul wind of its enormous leathery wings swipes the warriors off their feet. Our enemies cheer and chant a name. Ancalagon. Ancalagon the Black. Moringotto has unleashed Ancalagon the Black. We have no strength to set against this terror. This is over.

Another deafening roar. The beast is now so close that I feel the heat emanating from him. I stand still, sword in hand, staring at the approaching demon. I will not cower before it. If this is the end, I will be turned to ash standing.

“Dragonfire, Aranya, beware!” Artanar sweeps me off my feet and drags behind a large boulder. “That creature is nearly upon us!”

The heat draws closer, becomes nearly unbearable, then subsides again. I struggle to rise.

“Let me go, Artanar! This is the end anyway. Let me go!”

Artanar attempts to restrain me, but I shove him away and leave the shelter of the cliff. He follows me closely. “Very well, if you are so determined to seek your death, I will die beside you!” Anger in his voice overcomes terror. For a short while.

The horror of the sight that now opens before our eyes exceeds everything we have seen this far. A scorched patch of earth stretches before us. Smoking remnants of our warriors, turned to char and ashes, are scattered all around. Screams rend the air. Some of the blackened shapes are still moving, but soon stop, dying in terrible anguish. Some of those standing are ablaze; they fall to the ground in hope to beat the flames down, but the very earth here fights for Moringotto, and new tongues of fire leap up and enclose them. Some are running frantically, struggling to remove their vambraces and breastplates, and I realize with a sickening clarity that they are being roasted alive inside their armour. There is no hope for those touched by the dragonflames. There is no water here to set against fire. Anfauglith is a dry wasteland.

Still, I struggle forward to aid at least some of them, but the heat is unbearable. Flames leap up to hinder me. I cannot enter the blackened patch. I can do nothing to help. I stagger back a few steps, collapse to my knees beside the field of smoking ash and scream in anger and frustration. Ilúvatar, why? Why do You allow the Darkness to prevail over the Light? Why do You allow Evil to claim this land? Why? Ëarwen’s face flickers before my eyes, and the faces of my children. My beloved wife, I will not return to you as I promised. My daughter, we did not deliver your home in exile from evil. Dry sobs rack my body. We have failed.

“Aranya, look.” Artanar’s hand is on my shoulder. “Look skywards.”

Unsteadily I stand and raise my eyes to the sky covered with thick, black clouds. At first I discern only the shapes of the dragons circling above our heads, the mighty figure of Ancalagon in their middle. “They are not attacking anymore,” numbly I state the obvious. But why have they retreated?

Artanar’s eyes are sharper than mine. “There is more. To the West, Aranya.” 

And then I, too, see it: a tiny dot of light is approaching swiftly and growing greater and brighter. The brightness grows dazzling, but I discern the shape of a great ship, bearing on her mast a jewel that gleams with an otherworldly radiance and beauty. At the helm of the ship stands her captain, a warrior in burnished armour. He holds an unsheathed sword, its blade reflecting the light of the Silmaril. Smaller shapes, swift and golden-feathered, accompany the ship, and their calls, shrill and clear, drive away the despair.

“Vingilot! Vingilot and Ëarendil!” Someone shouts somewhere in the field, and then thousands of voices take up the call. “Ëarendil! Vingilot! The Eagles of Manwë!”

The black clouds overhead burst, and rain pours from them and douses the flames. I seize a horn from Artanar and blow my call, a sequence of winding notes. Many turn towards me, many are still standing.

“To me, Noldor of Aman! To me!”

My voice carries far over the field. Soon my people surround me. Swiftly I divide them, sending some to aid the wounded. The others I lead to attack. The tide of the battle has turned. Orcs dart here and there in dismay. Trolls stagger around confused, an easy target for our swords and spears. Overhead, the Eagles take out the smaller dragons. Ëarendil fights Ancalagon. His blade pierces the dragon’s scaled armour. Soon the beast roars in pain. He has no fire left, either the rain or the light of the Silmaril has quenched it. He attempts to bring down Vingilot, but she sails the clouds steadily. Then Ëarendil strikes the last mighty blow. He sunders the hideous head from the long neck. Ancalagon’s body plummets to the ground, on its way smiting the towers of Thangorodrim. They topple down in heaps of slag and ash.

We have won the war.