The Watchfires Burned Low by cuarthol

The Watchfires Burned Low

200 words in google.docs

Winter, First Age 455

Fingolfin dabbed the edge of his mouth and set the napkin beside his plate.  Fingon was speaking about trade with the Falas, but he was not listening.  His gaze lingering instead on his empty wine glass, though he waved off the servant who came to refill it.

There was a foreboding in his heart which all the normalcy of the evening could not dislodge.  Rising, he bid the lords remain and left to walk the ramparts beneath the moonless sky.

Winter had come early and howling winds swept across the plain, driving many into the hills to seek shelter.  He regarded it as nothing; no winter of Beleriand could ever overshadow the bitter journey of their exile.

His thoughts came to rest upon the long line of watchtowers stretched across the land, Barad Eithel, Ost-na-Thuin, Himring...  The mountains east of Ladros hid all that lay south of Lothlann, but he could see the flicker of lights from Dorthonion, though they were dimmed and few.

When Fingon came bearing a chalice of warmed cider held out like an offering, Fingolfin cupped his cheek and kissed his brow.  Tomorrow he would send messengers to summon his nephews.  Tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

Ost-na-Thuin is my invented name for Angrod and Aegnor's fortress in Dorthonion.