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.