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.