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.