In Nargothrond, the fair city of Orodreth, an Elf stood in the garden of his dwelling and bid farewell to his Lady wife. It was autumn, and the mallorn trees were golden over their bowed heads as they stood together, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of the dying leaves. She was clothed in garments of green and silver, with a circlet of silver on her dark hair, and he was dressed in bright mail and girded for war. He was to ride with the host of the great city with his king, for Glaurung the dragon had passed into the north of the realm of Nargothrond with a great host of Orcs following, and Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain, was burning.

For a long while they held hands and did not speak. They were old in the reckoning of Elves, though their faces were unlined and there was no silver in their hair, and only other Elves could have seen the subtle signs of age in the depths of their eyes. For uncounted lifetimes of Men they had walked side by side since the awakening of their folk at Cuivenen, enduring much for the sake of each other. Together they had left the bliss of Aman, and then felt the bitterness of Feanor’s betrayal as they stood afar in Araman and saw the smoke of the burning ships at Losgar. Together they had survived the cruel Crossing of the Ice, during which many of their kin had perished. Through fear and peril they had come at last to the safety of Nargothrond many ages before, and long they had dwelt there in bliss, but now a bitter parting had come to them.

“Last night I dreamed of Cuivenen,” he said at last. “I dreamed of the first time I saw you walking toward me, clad only in your long hair. Do you remember what you said to me then, Silwen?

Silwen’s eyes were cast down. “I saw the stars falling and I was afraid. I said, ‘Oh, how sad if they all should fall, and we should see them no more!’ How young and foolish I was then.”

“No more foolish than I,” Aerandir said. “I was only a little older than you, but I thought myself very wise. ‘Ah,’ I said to you, ‘Even the stars that fall grow in the sky again, as the sweet berries return when they are plucked, else the sky should soon be empty’.”

They laughed together and were silent, remembering, then Silwen lay her head on his breast. His mail was cold and hard against her cheek, even through his surcoat, and she could not feel the beating of his heart. Aerandir pressed his face into her dark hair and breathed in her scent. “Much has changed since then, has it not, Lady?”

She drew back and looked into his dark eyes, placing his hand over her heart. “This has not changed, nor will it ever, while the world lasts.”

Low and clear, but far away, a horn sounded, calling the host of Nargothrond to assemble. Aerandir sighed. “Ah, Lady, you are wicked to tempt me thus, when I must go.”

“Then stay,” she begged, and her lip trembled. “We are free, and Arda is wide; let us flee away together from Nargothrond, and war. My dreams of late have been dark and strange, and they speak to me of some doom I do not understand, and I am afraid.”

“We are no longer innocent Elf-children of Cuivenen, melamin,” he said. “We cannot hide ourselves in the shadows of the trees, cowering at the sound of the thunder as the storm approaches. We have our duty, and mine is to my city and my king, as yours is to keep our home until I return.”

“Duty!” Silwen wept, and her voice was bitter. “It is ever thus: The woman’s duty is to wait and do nothing, and when battle is finished, her duty is to mourn the fallen and collect their scattered bones. The foes of Nargothrond are many, and who can stand before Glaurung? The pride and host of Orodreth will wither before him, and you will fall.”

Aerandir spoke with a confidence he did not feel. “Our king Orodreth is brave, and he has at his right hand Adanedhil, the man they call Mormegil, the Black Sword, and it is said that he cannot be overcome.”

“He is still only a Man,” Silwen said bitterly. “And I have heard it said that he came to Nargothrond under false colors, calling himself the Blood-stained son of Ill-fate, and no name would suit him better, for he is truly Turin, the son of Hurin of Dor-Lomin, whose kin Morgoth has cursed. He is too proud, and he will have everything as he wishes, and it is said even the king now bows to his will. He cares nothing for Nargothrond or its people, he cares only for himself. I do not trust The Black Sword.”

Aerandir was shaken to hear these rumors spoken aloud from the lips of his wife. These thoughts had also been in his mind, but had said nothing for her sake, hoping to shield her from unreasonable fear. Still, he put his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “We will not fall, Silwen. Though all the host of Morgoth stood between us, still I would come home to you, my Shining Maiden. Has it not always been so?”

And so he kissed her and she clung to him, and at last he pried loose her hands, placing a kiss into her palms and pressing them together. “Let us not part with these fearful words between us, love, but keep hope for me, and hold this kiss for me until I return to claim it.” But his heart was heavy with foreboding, and he could not help but look behind him as he departed from her. To the end of his days he would remember her fair face, her lily hands upraised in farewell as she wept to see him go.
*******

In the late afternoon a soft rain fell. The house was quiet but for the singing of the maidens as they went to and fro, attending to their tasks. The air was filled with the scent of baking bread, and the doors and windows had been opened to let in the sweet sound of the rain. 'When I think of you, I am at rest,' the maidens sang. 'My thoughts seek you always, as the waves seek the shore...'

Silwen raised her voice with them as she sat at her loom, drowning her fears with the rhythmic clack of the shuttle. She was not the only Elf-woman who had seen her lord leave her this day, though that gave her little comfort. How did her Lord Aerandir fare, so far away? No word or messenger had yet come from the north, with tidings of either good or ill, and the city seemed hushed and waiting.

Silwen sighed. The martial sounds of the muster of Nargothrond, the clank of sword and shield, the sound of the horses and horns, had long since died away, but still she seemed to hear them. The very ground still seemed to tremble under her feet. Silwen paused to listen. Now she could hear cries from far away, and the thrumming in the ground was suddenly the sound of many running feet. The maids came from the kitchen, looking about fearfully. Filled with a dread she did not understand, Silwen rose up and drew them together. Looking through the open door, she saw Elves running blindly, pursued by some unseen terror, Elf-men and women, and maidens and children, and some stumbled and fell and did not rise again.

“Ai! Ai!” A voice wailed, and an Elf fell wearily in the doorway and looked within. He was dressed in bright mail, now smeared with gore; an empty quiver was on his back, but he held a sword in his right hand and his left arm hung bloody and broken at his side. “Ai, why do you tarry here? Fly, Ladies, I beg you! The gates are down and we are overwhelmed! Many Orcs are at my heels, killing and burning as they come, and Glaurung follows in their wake!”

The maidens screamed and wept, but Silwen stood before them silent with horror, knowing that these words meant the death of her Lord and the ruin of all her hopes, and so great was her sudden terror that she could not stir.

“We must flee!” The Elf cried. “Come, Ladies, I will lead you!” But even as he held out his bloodied hand to them, filled with sympathy for their fear, an Orc, yellow-eyed and armed with a club and a spear, came swiftly up behind. They screamed out a warning, but the Elf turned too late and was struck down, falling dead on the threshold, and the Orc gashed and trampled the body in a fury till the red foam flew from his mouth.

Now the Orc turned toward them and bared his teeth, but Silwen had caught up the fallen warrior's sword and held it before her, so whichever way the Orc turned there she turned also, so he could not approach. But the Orc looked on her and laughed, seeing in her no threat, and spoke: “Now, then, pretty thing.” His words were guttural and full of evil, but she understood all that was said, as if another voice spoke through him. “Pretty thing, come not between the minion of Morgoth Bauglir and his prey, or I and my brothers will not take thee in thrall, but we will strike thee down and lay thee in thy blood.”

But Silwen stood still as stone and was silent. The Orc laughed and reached for her, but she swung the sword down in an arc, severing the right hand. The Orc bellowed and again she struck at him, but no more vulnerable spot had he than the hand that had wielded the club; he was strong and not weary, wearing an iron breastplate, and his hide was as boiled leather. He knocked the sword aside and Silwen was thrown down, and the Orc placed his heavy foot upon the back of her neck, pinning her, and drove the cold iron point of the spear into her flesh.

More Orcs poured in to sack and pillage, and they were in such haste to collect the spoil and depart (for Glaurung was coming, and even Orcs fled before him,) that they did not bother to deal Silwen the death blow, but let her lie. The maidens were driven away with whips and blows, crying out to the Valar to save them. The iron shod feet of the Orcs trod upon Silwen as she lay unmoving on the floor of her dwelling, but she felt nothing, and slowly her anguished thoughts fled away. The cool wind blew in, filling the rooms with the sweet scent of the damp earth, the bitterness of ash and burning, and the coppery reek of blood.

Far and away the battle plain of Tumhalad stretched under the gray sky, scorched and ruined, torn into a quagmire of blood and filth. The dead lay piled in heaps-Elves and horses, Orcs and foul minions of Morgoth, mingled together in death. The autumn wind that had caused the proud banners of Nargothrond to ripple and snap now moaned coldly over the field, a low dirge of mourning for the lost and the dead. Mighty and terrible, beautiful in their wrath had been all the host of Nargothrond, but the enemy had been mightier still, and in greater numbers than any scout had told. The Orcs had broken upon their shield wall like the sea and been thrown back, but still they had come on, an unstoppable black tide, until at last the Elves were driven into the plain of Tumhalad and penned. Glaurung the dragon had cast his shadow over the battle, consuming friend and foe alike with fire, and the Elves of Nargothrond had fled in rout, scattering like leaves before the storm wind.

Aerandir lay in the mire, chilled and wracked with pain. He opened his eyes and lifted his head from the mud where he had fallen. For a moment he was as a child that awakens in the dark, filled with terror and not knowing where he was or what had befallen him. Where was his king, Orodreth? Where was his captain, The Black Sword of Nargothrond? How had he come to this terrible place? Then it came back to him: How Orodreth had been overcome and thrown down, and Mormegil, with a fallen Elf across his saddle, had at last sounded the retreat, calling all to him who would not be slain. Aerandir groaned and raised a trembling hand to his brow; it came away sticky with caked blood. How had he been wounded? Aerandir dimly recalled an Orc; his yellow teeth flecked with blood, standing over him with a cudgel-then darkness had fallen.

Aerandir struggled to his knees and looked about him. All around him the dead lay in mounds, fair faces frozen in death, stiff white hands reaching to the heavens for a help that had not come. He had seen battle before, but never such a slaughter as this. The taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth, but he could not find it in his heart to curse his king, who lay somewhere among the dead. It was not his folly alone that had led them to this.

Mormegil, Aerandir thought bitterly, and recalled Silwen’s words. We followed you without question, and so we were ensnared in your doom.

Aerandir could not rise, and so he began to crawl. So thickly did the dead lay tangled together that he could not help but tread on them, and the feel of their cold flesh filled him with horror. Though many were crushed, or burned, trodden into the mud or cruelly hewn by the swords of the Orcs, still there were among them many faces that he knew. But his eyes were dry, and he felt numb, and his grief and shame were so deep that he could not mourn.

Aerandir crawled on, stumbling and sick at heart, until he came to a place where many Elves had fallen with their horses. One horse still stood, burned and marked with many sword cuts. The horse sweated and trembled, but her master still sat at her feet, bowed as one who is deeply asleep, and his hand still held fast to the reins. As Aerandir came upon him he lifted his head: Alive, through some miracle, but his shattered helm and broken sword were on the ground beside him, and his face was battered and bloody.

“Who comes there?” he said, groping helplessly on the ground for the hilt of his sword, and Aerandir knew then that he was blind. Wordlessly, Aerandir came to him and grasped his outstretched hand. “Ai! I cannot see! Soron, my brother, is it you?”

“Yes, it is I,” Aerandir said. “I have searched long for you.”

The dying Elf drew in a shuddering breath, but his face was filled with joy. “Your voice sounds strange, my brother, but it is good to hear it. It is good to know you are still alive.” His voice was fading as he slowly toppled onto his side. Aerandir came to him and took him into his arms. “Tell me quickly, how did we fare? It has become so very quiet.”

Aerandir‘s voice caught in his throat and he could not speak, and in the next moment, the Elf in his arms let out his breath and died. Aerandir let him down upon the ground, and though he did not know him, at last he could grieve: For Nargothrond, for himself, for this dead Elf whose name and tale he would never know, whose voice would never again lift in song.

Weeping, Aerandir loosed the reins from his grip, closed the unseeing eyes and folded the cold hands on his breast. He rose wearily to his feet and reached out a gentle hand to the horse. The poor beast moaned in fear and shied away. “Shh, hush, beautiful one,” Aerandir said, filled with pity. “You are also wounded and weary, I know, but I must return to Silwen. Do this one, last service for your masters, and then you may rest.” He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned heavily against the horse, remembering the smell of Silwen‘s hair, the feel of her sweet, warm breath on his cheek in the dark. Silwen was sitting at her loom, or in the window, and the tears were falling on her white hands like rain, and she was waiting for him.

Aerandir climbed into the saddle and looked his last upon the field, on the fallen Elves, and the bright banners trampled into the mud, and he wept. “Forgive me!” he called to the unhearing dead. “Forgive me, my brothers, that I did not die with you. But now I must go on, for Silwen’s sake. I must live.” And he turned at last and rode away.

Silwen lay unconscious for a long time, and even when she had awakened she kept her eyes closed and did not move, fearing discovery. At last, when all was quiet, she opened her eyes. The sun was sinking; the room was bathed in a dim, red light, and the air smelled of smoke. She tried to rise and fell back, crying out in pain. The spear of the Orc had pierced her shoulder and broken the bone. He had been in haste and she had been struggling, so it had not run her through, but she could not lift her right arm and each movement and drawn breath brought pain. She managed to sit up, feeling the warm blood trickle down her back, and looked about her. The Orcs had despoiled the house, though in their hurry they had not put it to the torch, and what they could not carry away they had broken and destroyed. The walls were covered with foul scrawls drawn in their own black blood, and here and there the corpse of an Orc lay sprawled in death, murdered by his own kind as they fought over the plunder.

Silwen was dizzy, her wounds burned, and she was terribly thirsty. She thought of the fountain in the garden, filled with the sweet rain from the morning, and licked her parched lips. It was not so very far, and the enemy had gone. She rose to her feet with an effort and staggered toward the doorway. In any case, it did not matter whether she was discovered or not. The host of Nargothrond had fallen before the enemy, and Aerandir was dead, his bright spirit fled away to await her in the Halls of Mandos. It was only necessary to struggle on for a little while longer, until some servant of the enemy found her and took her life, or weariness and pain became too much to bear, then she would lie down in whatever place she had happened to wander and rest. Silwen wiped her stinging eyes. Forgive my delay, love, Silwen thought. I will come to you soon.

In the garden the mallorn leaves were still golden, but the flowers had been trampled down, and the corpse of the fallen Elf had been pulled from the doorway and brutally mutilated, pinned to the earth with a standard bearing the sign of Morgoth. His head lay in the fountain, fouling the clear water with his blood. Silwen looked on this horror and gasped, unable to move.

“I will not fear the dead,” Silwen whispered to herself at last. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, cracked and haunted. “They are at peace. They cannot harm me.” She averted her eyes and with great effort took one, trembling step. Then another. And another. Step by step she left the ruined garden, a bedraggled and bloodied figure, her face dirty and tear-streaked and her long hair unbound. Her steps were slow and halting, but her shoulders were straight and she did not look behind her.

Silwen came at last to the great fountain in the city square, where that morning the great host had assembled. Now the high dwellings and towers all around it were laid in ruin, but the fountain itself was untouched, though its waters were stilled, and the grass and flowers around its base were still green and growing. Silwen stumbled to the fountain and plunged in her hand, lifting the cool water to her lips. She drank until she was full, then sat on the stone lip of the fountain, breathing heavily. Ash sifted down like a gray shroud. High over her head, living embers from the distant fires fell like red stars, reflecting in the water. Silwen lifted her head and watched them, thinking how beautiful they looked against the backdrop of the darkening sky. How strange it was that something so delicate and lovely could come from horror and ruin!

To her great relief, not many of the dead lay here. Most of the fallen had been slain near their homes, or had died in vain defense of the city gates, but all around her in the long grass, or on the cobblestones lay the abandoned spoils of Nargothrond: Furnishings and paintings too heavy to carry away, shredded garments, books torn apart and scattered. Here was a broken bracelet, a dented shield, and there a little shoe. The owners of the objects must have been gathered here before being driven away. Had the young Elf-women of her own household been among them? Now they were lost beyond any hope of rescue, murdered and cast into the fire or the river, or taken as thralls of Morgoth. Had they had called out to the Valar to save them? The Valar had not heard them. Perhaps the Valar no longer cared. Silwen felt black despair creep over her, and she slid down into the grass, hiding her face against the warm earth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not so far away, Glaurung, the Worm of Morgoth, crawled through the rubble, delighting in the evil he had done, blasting the fair fountains and dwellings with fire for his amusement, or bringing down the white walls and towers with a swipe of his claws or the thrash of his tail. The sack of the city was accomplished and nothing living remained, save for a few Orcs, either braver or more foolish than their fellows who had fled. Now and then Glaurung would come upon the Orcs unawares and scatter them, hunting them down one by one, as a cat hunts a mouse. Orcs made good sport but they were now few and wary, and he hungered for sweeter meat. All the Elves of the city were dead or taken, driven away along the northward road to slavery and torment under the eye of Morgoth, but now as the great serpent crawled along, he caught a whiff on the air of some living thing. It did not smell like an animal, or a Man, or little squeaking Orc. Perhaps some Elf-rat did survive among the fallen stones, but no matter. "Run, run, little rat! I will catch thee as well, all in due time," Glaurung laughed, loud and terrible, and the dying city trembled, stone on stone.

Fair Nargothrond was in flames, and all its buildings and monuments, all its beautiful things woven, and carved, and painted, were going up in a great burning, and the light of its dying could be seen from far off. Aerandir saw no living thing as he hurried along the northward road. The sky was filled with a red light and a pall of bitter smoke crept low upon the ground. Even if there had been no road to guide him still Aerandir could have made his way, for the Orcs had fallen on Nargothrond like a great wave and left a clear path of destruction, and the dragon had followed close on their heels, leaving all behind them blackened and dead.

Aerandir was within sight of the city when his mount stumbled and he was thrown. He had fallen into a half-sleep and slid heavily from the horse, striking his head upon the ground. For a long time he lay still, and he awakened to the feel of something sharp in his ribs. He lifted his face from the earth and groaned. Ah, the abuse his poor head had suffered this day! He wished he had not lost his helm on the battlefield.

“Aiya!” a low voice said. “He is alive, after all!” An Elf was bending over Aerandir, prodding him with a branch. He was dark-haired, with sea-green eyes, and his garments were soiled and torn. He was not armed and did not wear a coat of mail or carry a shield. He knelt down beside Aerandir and offered him a flask. “Here is water, but do not drink too much. It is all that I have.”

Aerandir sat up and drank, and when he had wet his parched throat he offered his thanks. The young Elf looked uncomfortable. “Do not thank me too quickly. I thought you were dead, and I came to take your sword and your horse. The dead have no need of such things, and Lossel cannot walk, and we have far to go.”

Aerandir saw now a young maiden sitting close by. Her long, fair hair was hanging around her pale face. She was smudged with soot and her hands and feet were bound with ragged strips of linen. She smiled but did not speak.
“I am Aerandir of Nargothrond,” Aerandir said at last, struggling to his feet. He staggered and nearly fell.

The young Elf reached out to steady him. “I am Arminas, a visitor from the south, where dwells Cirdan the Shipwright.” He saw the look of surprise on Aerandir’s face and said, “Yes, and I am one of the two messengers that came to Nargothrond in the spring with words of warning. When my kinsman, Gelmir, returned to the south I did not go with him. I had fallen in love with Nargothrond the beautiful, and I would not leave her.”

“Tell me,” Aerandir said, sick with dread. “How fares the city and her people? Have you alone escaped?”

Arminas swallowed hard, and his voice was thick with grief. “It has fallen. The Orcs poured over the great bridge, and the dragon followed and broke down the Gates of Felagund. The brave warriors stood to the last, but none could withstand them, and they were all killed, every one. The women and maidens and children were taken away, and any who dared resist were cast into the fire. This I saw with my own eyes, and I could do nothing.”

Aerandir bowed his head. Oh my dear wife, I cannot give up hope that you still live. Someway, somehow you escaped. I will not give up hope for you while life remains in me. “Did you perhaps see among the captives an Elf-woman, very tall and fair, dark-haired as I am, but with gray eyes, dressed in silver and green, with a silver circlet on her hair?”

“I could not tell one from another, so quickly did the Orcs hurry them away. I did not tarry there; the flames were approaching, and Lossel and I were strangling on the smoke, and the stones of our hiding place grew so hot that we were burned. We fled, and so I cannot tell you more. Perhaps some few escaped, even as we have, and are even now fleeing toward Doriath, or still in hiding and waiting for daylight.” Arminas put his hand on Aerandir’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I see you have your own grief to bear. I should not burden you with such terrible knowledge. It is grief enough to know that Nargothrond is gone and her people scattered.”

They stood silent for a moment in shared sorrow, and then Aerandir turned away. “I must return to Nargothrond. I made a promise to return, and whether she is dead, or taken, this I must see for myself.”

Arminas sought to restrain him. “You go to your death! The city will soon be in ashes and the dragon has taken all that is left to be his foul nest. The one you love is lost to you. Do not go there, I beg you. Journey with Lossel and I to my home at the Mouths of Sirion, where we may find refuge and healing, and forgetfulness of grief.”

Aerandir looked into his eyes. “If your love was within your reach, and there was still the smallest chance that she was yet alive and could be saved, would you abandon her to her fate?”

“No.” Arminas looked at Lossel. “Never. If the least hope remained, still I would go to her, though it cost me my life. She would do no less for me.”

Aerandir looked at him sadly. “Now we understand one another.”

Aerandir walked to where Lossel was sitting and lifted the Elf-maiden into his arms. He carried her to the horse and set her in the saddle, then placed the reins into Arminas’ hands. “This poor beast has served her masters faithfully. Treat her well and she will repay you in kind.” He unfastened his sword belt. “Take this also and use it well, in remembrance of me. I do not have far to go, and I do not think I will need it anymore. I have always been more skilled with a song and a tale than a sword, and a sword would help me but little if I stood in the dragon’s shadow. Farewell, Arminas.”

“Farewell, Aerandir.” Arminas embraced him like a brother. “May you find what you seek.”

Aerandir returned the embrace. It gave him some comfort to know that these young ones had a chance to live. “I thank you for your kindness. May the stars shine upon you, and you and your Lady find safety. Keep to the hidden paths and avoid the road!” Aerandir turned to Lossel and gently pressed her injured hand, and blessed her. “I pray you forget your sorrows and find your sweet voice soon, little one. Be well.” Lossel grasped his hand and kissed it, speaking without words. Then Aerandir left them and walked quickly down the road, turning his face toward the fire.

In the deep twilight under the trees the Quendi huddled together. The fair, upturned faces glimmered, and the falling rain glittered on their hair like jewels under the stars of Cuivenen. The Hunter was coming, and the ground shook beneath the feet of his steed; the sound of his horn echoed like thunder. Silwen remembered this moment. Soon Aerandir would be drawn by curiosity to the opening in the glade, and she would follow, as she always did, clutching his hand. But now the dream was altered, the moment had changed. He was leaving her. She saw him ahead, a white figure in the gloom. Why did he not wait for her? She reached for him blindly in the dark, crawling, unable to rise, the foliage pressing her down, hot and smothering…

Silwen sat up and looked about her with wide eyes, then let out her breath. “Only a troubled dream,” she whispered.

But the dream was no more terrible than waking. Nargothrond still lay in ruin, and the dead lay still where they had fallen. The air had grown stifling and hot, and the wind had risen in the short time she had slept. Glowing coals of fire blew along the ground. Some had settled at the hem of her gown and she slapped them away before they could set the cloth alight. There was a strange reek in the air that parched her throat and made her cough. The fires had spread, and if she did not wish to burn she must move on. She rose slowly to her feet and groaned. Her shoulder felt tender and feverish; she was stiff, her eyes burned, and she ached, but greater still was the pain in her heart. She bent over the fountain, brushing away the ashes on the surface of the water, and bathed her face. Smoke now blotted out the sky, and she could no longer even see the embers reflected in the water. How bitter it was that even that small beauty was denied to her!

Silwen looked at the water and trembled. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart fluttered in the cage of her ribs like a trapped bird. A huge and fearful shadow had risen behind her and yet she stood still, stricken with terror, and dared not turn her head.

A dark and monstrous laughter, deep and terrible, came to her ears. “The cat has found thee, little Elf-rat.” Glaurung had come upon her as she slept, coiling the length of himself around the square so there was no chance of flight. He could have torn her limb from limb as she lay senseless, but he was of a mind to toy with this little thing a while before he struck to kill. “Vermin! Wilt thou not entreat me now for thy life? Turn thou and face me!”

Silwen dared not look: To stare into the lidless eyes of the dragon was to fall under his spell. Why did the monster not simply crush her and be done? Aerandir was dead, her home was gone, family and friends swept away beyond recall; she had already lost everything she had gained through all the long ages of her life. All that was left to her was the ordering of her death, and she would not die as a groveling slave. “No,” she whispered, and then spoke more firmly, forcing the words up from deep inside herself. “I will not beg, worm, for of mercy you have none!”

Glaurung breathed out fire upon the fountain and the water boiled away into steam, and the stones blackened and cracked. Silwen screamed and leaped away, then crouched low upon the ground in an agony of terror, expecting a hideous death. But the dragon controlled his blast and she was untouched, though she was nearly overcome by the reek of decay which came from him.

“Brave words, little fool, trespasser upon my nest!” But he was not truly enraged now, for by the power given to him by his Dark Lord he looked into Silwen’s mind and saw there the hook from which hung her doom. “Did thy Lord also speak so boldly before his death? I think not. The host of Orodreth withered in flames, crying out in agony, and their scorched bones bleach upon the plain of Tumhalad! But let it not be said that I am entirely without pity: Wouldst thou know his end, Elf-rat, and hear his voice one last time? Then look on me!”

And Silwen, weary and sick and filled with longing for one last glimpse of her love who was lost, was swayed by the dragon’s words. She lifted her face and looked upon the dragon, falling under his power. She looked into his eyes and saw there a dark, deceitful vision: Aerandir, wounded beyond healing on a field of death, crying out to her with his last breath, and she could not go to him. The last, least hope died in her heart, and in an instant she became a small, cowering creature, without a past, without a name, without thought, held in place as if by an iron hand.

Glaurung laughed, for his sport went well. “Now thou seeth his fate, Elf-rat, and thy fate as well, for none defy me and live. I have destroyed all thy folk and this dung heap that was their city, all in a day. Mere hours ago I faced The Black Sword, the great warrior Turin, son of Hurin Thalion-and he has fled away to the fulfillment of his doom. All who come before me in my wrath perish utterly! Hope is dead, love is in ashes, and the shadow has conquered for ever!”

The great serpent roared his delight until the walls fell, and Silwen shuddered and wept. Now to bring the game to a close and collect the prize. He shifted his coils so it seemed as if an avenue of escape was opened, though none had ever escaped him. He bent his great head to the earth, flexing his black claws. Ah, pursuit was sweet! “Now…run!”

And Silwen was in that moment released from the spell of his eyes, fleeing like a sparrow before the hawk, and the dragon’s laughter followed her into darkness.

Silwen ran to and fro, the dragon at her very heels. He could have crushed her in a moment, but he was enjoying the chase too much to end it quickly. Silwen dashed suddenly through a damaged arch of stone, and as she passed the dragon laid it in ruins with a sweep of his tail. A great cloud of dust rose up, hiding Silwen from his eyes. He roared and raked up the rubble with his claws, but fear had given her speed and he could not find her. Though she was white and slender as a lily, hidden within her was a core of steel, and she was not so easily broken as Glaurung’s pride had led him to believe. Released from the spell of his eyes, the darkness into which she had fallen became only a gray twilight through which she wandered, lost and afraid, but not witless. And so seeing her chance as Glaurung searched among the fallen stones, breathing forth fire until they crumbled around him, Silwen escaped him and fled.

She ran until by chance she had reached the shattered Gates of Felagund. Here the mangled dead were piled high and mixed with giant chunks of broken masonry and splintered wood. The battle there had been fierce and terrible, and the Elves did not yield, and Glaurung had trampled both the defenders of the gates and the attacking Orcs alike as he entered into the city.

She reached the hill of slain Elves and Orcs and swiftly she began to climb. Many a fair Elf lay there that she had loved well in better days, but now she wandered in shadow and knew them not, seeing their cold and broken bodies only as an obstacle to be overcome. She reached the top and began her descent, humming to herself and weeping without knowing why. She halted for a moment at the bottom, leaning wearily against the mound of the fallen. Ahead of her was the great bridge over the river Narog-the folly of Orodreth and Nargothrond, and the means by which it was destroyed. Behind her was a hideous nightmare made real; ahead lay half-forgotten feelings of grief and loss, memories of a gentle touch, and a well-loved voice silenced forever. Where had that voice gone?

“When I think of you, I am at rest…” Silwen sang softly and brokenly to herself as she crawled forward on her hands. Rest. Yes. She had been tired and afraid for a long time, and rest would be good.

Before her were the bodies of several Elf-women, slain by the Orcs as they had attempted to flee. Two lay together, and the head of the younger was pillowed on the unmoving breast of the elder, and their cold hands still clasped together. Fair blossoms of the Elves they had been in life, but now they were pale and terrible to look upon in in death, and their open eyes reflected only the red flame-light that hovered over the rubble of Nargothrond. At the end of her strength, Silwen came to them and lay down among the corpses.

Now I am bestowed aright, Silwen thought. And she laid down her head and did not care if she ever arose again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aerandir saw her lying thus amongst the dead as he approached over the bridge. His breath caught and his heart seemed to stop in his breast. Far away the dragon howled, and the river roared through the narrow gorge, but to him the world had fallen silent. This could not be she, no, not among the corpses, never again to rise and bless him with the warmth of her kiss, or heal his sorrows with the touch of her white hands. But tattered and dirty, bloodied and ragged, still he knew every inch of her fair face and form as he knew his own. “Silwen,” he croaked, and then called more loudly, grief-stricken and desperate. “Silwen!”

Silwen heard the sound of a voice calling to her and lifted her head. Aerandir let out his breath and came to her slowly, fearing that she was merely some fancy of his grief that might vanish before his eyes, but she was alive, filthy and wounded, but blessedly whole and alive. He knelt and reached to embrace her, but she shrieked and cringed away. In her faded memory her love was an Elf tall and fair, high and lordly, with bright, dark eyes and a clean scent as of the far-away sea, not this dirty, broken spectre in stained mail who reeked of filth and dried blood.

Her rejection was as a knife in his heart. He had returned as promised, but she knew him not. He was far too late, and late was worse than never. What horrors had brought her to this? “Ai, Silwen, Silwen, do you not know me?” he groaned, and bent to the ground with guilt and grief.

Aerandir’s tears were as the spring rain fallen on frozen earth, washing away the cold of winter, and in that moment Silwen looked on him and knew him. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Aerandir!” she cried aloud. She looked about her with growing wonder and terror. “My Lord, how did we come here?” For she recalled nothing after the morning and their parting, save for a dim memory of crushing grief and loss-all that remained of Glaurung’s spell, which had withered in the bright light of hope renewed and love regained.

Aerandir held her close and wept anew at the sweet song of her voice, which he had thought never to hear speak his name again. He was too filled with joy to speak. “It is a tale too long and terrible for telling,” he said at last through his tears, taking her hand. “Come, Lady! Let us leave this place of death and start our lives anew. There is world enough and time to spare, now that we have found each other again.”

“Lead me,” she said. And they arose and prepared to flee.

But the dragon, ah, the dragon Glaurung! Great in wickedness, devourer of Elves and Men-he had caught the scent of his prey again at last, following it to the shattered gates, and nothing escaped him once it was within his sight. He smashed through the rubble, setting everything around him in flames, and the froth from his lips sizzled on the scorched earth, and the roar of his anger shook the very foundations of the world. The Elf-rat had escaped him once, briefly, but never again, and he would not play this time, oh no. The time for games had ended. This time he would kill and rend, not for sport or the sheer joy of dreadful slaughter, but for revenge.

His wrath was hot as he spied the two, tiny figures standing hand in hand on a fragile bridge of wood and stone. They backed away in fear as he came forward, coiling his great length between them and the end of the bridge. Glaurung looked on them and gloated-Two Elf-rats in the same trap!-and they saw their death in his eyes.

Aerandir looked down at Silwen and touched her cheek, and she placed a kiss into the palm of his hand. She glanced up in an attempt to hold off fear, and gasped. “Oh,” she said in wonder. “Oh, look.” Far above them the clouds of black smoke had parted, and the white stars shone through bright and clear.

Aerandir looked up also and drew in his breath. “Ai, Tintalle Varda, Elentari!”

“Are they not beautiful?” Silwen said.

“You are beautiful,” Aerandir said, and they laughed suddenly as they looked into each other’s eyes. Their greatest fear had always been they would somehow be parted and one would have to go forward without the other, but now that fear was swept away, utterly and for all time.

The sound of their laughter came to Glaurung, and it was as cool water falling on barren rock in a parched land without hope. He heard in it the song of The One and the music of the Ainur, and such a holy light of happiness and peace was in the faces of Aerandir and Silwen that for an instant Glaurung halted. Deep in his cold heart he was afraid, seeing in them a reflection of the Light the shadow cannot touch, and the Love that fears not death. The sound of that laughter would haunt his dark dreams until the end of his days.

Glaurung, stung to fury by his own cowardice, shook his head until the poisonous foam flew from his great jaws. He stamped violently, causing the stones of the bridge to split and fall into the chasm. He had already raked up all the treasures of Nargothrond to be his jeweled bed, and all that remained was to throw down the bridge, and so make his victory over the city and the folk that he hated complete. He was Glaurung! Destroyer of hope, bringer of darkness and death! What had he to fear from these little things?

(But his doom, and the doom of his Dark Master and all who served him was already written, even then, and by the hands of little things would the Darkness finally be cast down, though many ages would pass before it was accomplished.)

Aerandir and Silwen stood together on the crumbling edge of ruin, and they did not retreat. Terror and death was before them, and the flames had risen high behind them. There was nowhere to go. Aerandir gently kissed Silwen’s bruised face-her eyes, her brow, and then her mouth. She returned his kiss and felt him tremble, as he had every time she had kissed him through all the long ages of the world. Silwen closed her eyes and rested her head on his breast, hearing again the quick beat of his heart.

“Now,” Aerandir whispered, brushing away her tears. “Now will we sleep.”

And the stones fell away beneath their feet and they slid into emptiness, falling like bright stars toward the river far, far below.

********
The End.

As always, many, many belated thanks to the kind reviewers of this story at FanFic.net, who were interested enough to stick with a story starring mainly original characters. Especial thanks to Finch, who pointed out a goofy and potentially embarrassing mistake.

I wrote this story in about two weeks, including rewrites, in what felt like a white-hot fever of creation. I got so wrapped up in it that I had nightmares about Nargothrond and Glaurung, and this is one of the few stories I've written that actually made me cry while I was writing it. (The other one was 'A Path With No Returning', at, yup, you guessed it-Fanfic.net. )