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.