At a distance by bunn

The midsummer sun shone bright. By the harbour-steps, young Gil-galad and his friends swam in water clear and green as emerald. 

Círdan looked out north-east, and saw only a fair green land, with the faintest dark smudge at the edge that might be dark cloud-shadow over distant mountains.

Cirdan had sent his people north and east, to Fingon and the great assault.  To Lalwen, standing steady in that northern darkness beside her brother’s son wthe King.

He’d sent everyone who would agree to go, had stripped bare Brithombar and Eglarest. If the gamble failed, if the Enemy prevailed, the Falas would have few defenders.

So Círdan waits for news, while dragon-fire and bloody death rains on Anfauglith while Gwindor sees his brother die, attacks and beats upon the doors of Angband, and is taken prisoner.

While Maedhros struggles to reach Fingon, fails, while Azaghâl faces Glaurung, falls.

As Círdan waits, Fingon faces the Balrog-whips: is trampled in his blood, while Lalwen, no longer laughing, struggles to reach him and is slain.

The news will come to Cirdan in ash and iron, from desperate survivors, and all too soon, in orc-arrows and siege-engines, and the reaching, sulphurous darkness of the skies. 

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