Chapter One: Of the First Battle of the Wars of Beleriand and the Rising of the Moon

 But it came to pass at last that the end of bliss was at hand, and the noontide of Valinor was drawing to its twilight. For as has been told and as is known to all, being written in lore and sung in many songs, Melkor slew the Trees of the Valar with the aid of Ungoliant, and escaped, and came back to Middle-earth… Morgoth, as has before been told, returned to Angband, and built it anew, and above its doors he reared the reeking towers of Thangorodrim; and the gates of Morgoth were but one hundred and fifty leagues distant from the bridge of Menegroth: far and yet all too near.

Now the Orcs that multiplied in the darkness of the earth grew strong and fell, and their dark lord filled them with a lust of rain and death; and they issued from Angband's gates under the clouds that Morgoth sent forth, and passed silently into the highlands of the north. Thence on a sudden a great army came into Beleriand and assailed King Thingol. Now in his wide realm many Elves wandered free in the wild, or dwelt at peace in small kindreds far sundered; and only about Menegroth in the midst of the land, and along the Falas in the country of the mariners, were there numerous peoples. But the Orcs came down upon either side of Menegroth, and from camps in the east between Celon and Gelion, and west in the plains between Sirion and Narog, they plundered far and wide; and Thingol was cut off from Círdan at Eglarest. Therefore he called upon Denethor; and the Elves came in force from Region beyond Aros and from Ossiriand, and fought the first battle in the Wars of Beleriand.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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From the Long Wall in the south, a horn sounded.

Seconds later, two more calls answered it from the east and west—all signals that the troops were in position.

Elu Thingol looked out over the warriors assembled before him and felt their eyes upon him as they waited tensely for his signal. The wind on the plain whipped the white mane of the High King’s war stallion, carrying the stench of Orcs and causing the beast to dance nervously as his nostrils flared. Starlight glinted off Thingol’s bright helm and silver hair as he turned his gaze towards the sea of Orcs that his army had driven south. He paused a moment to smile coldly at their obvious confusion upon hearing the Elven horns.

The servants of Morgoth had thought to find the Elves of Beleriand defenseless when they descended on their lands, but they were gravely mistaken. The foresight of Melian and the warnings of the Dwarves and Denethor, who came from the East across the Ered Luin, assured that Thingol had anticipated the end of peace in Beleriand. He hired the Dwarves to build a stronghold and to forge arms and he raised an army commanded by the lords of his household. When war came, he was prepared. But no Elf in Middle Earth, not even the High King, had seen a battle of this scale. Indeed, few of the Sindar had been tested in battle at all.

With a last glance to Beleg, who signaled the readiness of his archers, Thingol turned to Daeron, riding to his right and carrying his dark blue and silver banner. He commanded him to sound the final horn.

At once, Beleg’s archers loosed their first volley.

Chaos erupted amongst the Orcs. Arrows flew towards them not only from Elu Thingol’s warriors to their north, but also from the south where Denethor, King of the Nandor, was hidden with a host of his people in the hills of the Andram, the Long Wall.

With high-pitched squeals, Orcs crumpled to the ground, arrows protruding from their bodies. Those that did not fall stopped short their race to the Andram, where they had expected to find shelter in the hills and the advantage of high ground. Panicked, they broke ranks. Some split off to either side of the main force in hopes of escaping to the east or west. Others fled southeast towards Ramdal, the Wall’s End, intending to skirt to the east of the mountains.

That was precisely what the High King had expected them to do.

Beleg’s archers continued to rain arrows on the Orcs that fled, reducing their numbers. At the same time, reinforcements led by Thingol’s captain, Mablung, in the West and Thingol’s youngest brother, Elmo, in the East, emerged to prevent the Orcs’ escape. The enemy once again scattered, screeching in fear.

Thingol drew his sword, Aranrúth, from its sheath and held it aloft, gleaming in the starlight. At that signal, Daeron again blew his horn and Beleg ordered the Elven force to advance against the Orcs that had despoiled their lands. With furious cries, the Elves drew their blades and charged.

The Elven warriors hit upon their enemies with a force akin to Ulmo’s waves crashing on the shore. The already disorganized Orcs were overrun. Cold fury over the invasion of his realm drove Thingol as he plunged Aranrúth between the breastplate and shoulder pauldron of the first Orc he encountered. The Orc loosed a satisfying squeal and crumpled to its knees.  Planting his foot on the Orc’s chest, Thingol dislodged his sword and allowed its momentum as it pulled free to bring the blade across the neck of another nearby enemy. This Orc also fell writhing on the ground. A third Orc charged Thingol, sword leveled at his horse’s shoulder and growling in rage. Urging his stallion forward to protect it from the Orc’s charge, Thingol parried the Orc’s blow with Aranrúth, dragging down its sword. With the knife in his other hand, Thingol slit the Orc’s throat. As that Orc fell, Thingol turned to the next, wielding his blade with deadly precision, the light of Aman blazing in his eyes.

Thingol’s warriors cut a neat line through the Orcs’ main force, splitting it in half and forcing it to fight a divided battle sandwiched between the Elves’ main army led by Thingol and the High King’s reinforcements to the East and West, led by Elmo and Mablung.

Of all the Elves in the King’s army, the grandsons of Elmo and Mablung’s officers were the most vicious. Celeborn and Galathil often wandered with their cousins through the forests of Neldoreth and Region. Thus, they had known most of the Elves that had been taken at unawares and slaughtered when the Orcs first descended on Beleriand. Similarly, Mablung’s warriors, who patrolled the marches of the realm, were the only Elves that had already skirmished with wolves or Orkish scouts. They had discovered Morgoth’s Orcs as they descended from the north into Beleriand and many had died protecting the borders before the High King mustered a force sufficient to drive the Orcs to this battle.

Those unarmed, wandering friends of Celeborn and Galathil and Mablung’s warriors were the first Elves ever known to be slain in Beleriand. Their loss was bitterly grieved by all and their comrades fought fiercely now to avenge their deaths. Cries of ‘For my son, Gwaelon’ or ‘For my father, Tossion’ echoed across the battlefield as Elven swords cleaved Orc flesh. Each name rang in Thingol’s ears more loudly than the sounds of the clanging weapons and pierced his heart more painfully than Orkish blades might.

After what seemed like an Age of raging battle, Thingol brought Aranrúth down to crush the helm of a fleeing Orc, but found no new target to meet his upswing. He looked around himself swiftly. At his side was Beleg. Black blood mingled with red on his armor as he also scanned their surrounds for danger. They glanced briefly at one another and then looked over the battlefield, strewn with the bodies of Orcs, some lying still and others writhing in pain or trying to drag themselves away. Around them, a jubilant cry of victory slowly arose and gained strength as the Elves realized the battle was won.

With a grim gleam in his eyes, Beleg bowed to Thingol and turned to take inventory of their losses.

Trusting his captain to see to the aftermath of the battle, Thingol allowed himself a moment to allay his personal fears. He searched the faces of the celebrating Elves until he saw his brother and nephews to the East. Taking a deep, calming breath, his eyes then sought his friends and closest advisors, his relief building with each Elf he found. Most were wounded, but few so badly that they could not stand. Finally, he turned south, squinting in the star light towards the Andram. There, he still detected the sounds and movement of battle. Just as he was about to gather his warriors to ride towards the continuing battle, a horn sounded to the south, faint and desperate.

“That is lord Denethor’s horn!” Thingol heard a voice behind him say.

The king’s expression hardened as he turned to Daeron. “See to the wounded here, finish off the Orcs that still live and send word to Elmo and Mablung to follow me south.” His eyes shifted to Beleg. “Gather the warriors that can still fight and come with me,” he ordered, urging his horse swiftly across the plain towards the Andram.

*~*~*

But the victory of the Elves was dear-bought For those of Ossiriand were light-armed, and no match for theOrcs, who were shod with iron and iron-shielded and bore great spears with broad blades; and Denethor was cut off and surrounded upon the hill of Amon Ereb. There he fell and all his nearest kin about him, before the host of Thingol could come to his aid. Bitterly though his fall was avenged, when Thingol came upon the rear of the Orcs and slew them in heaps, his people lamented him ever after and took no king again.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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From his position hidden in the slopes of the Andram, Oropher’s stomach roiled when he first caught sight and scent of the Orcs that the High King’s forces drove south. Around him, he saw many of the Nandor grip their bows as their faces contorted with hate and rage and fear. He knew his father’s people in the East, unlike his mother’s in Beleriand, had already known too much grief fighting these hideous creatures. Seeing the Nandorin warriors now, he was reminded of the look of deep grief and anger on his father’s face while listening to the tales his cousin Denethor told of his flight across the mountains, fleeing the Orcs and seeking the aid of the High King—so many Elves, long sundered friends and kin, had been lost.

Before this battle, Oropher himself had known only a fraction of their pain—he and his brother Engwe had been with their cousins, Celeborn and Galathil, when they had happened upon the ruined camp of the friends they had sought to meet along the far northeastern banks of the Esgalduin River. He knew that if he lived until the end of all things, he would never forget the shock he had felt that day. Furious and anguished and sickened, they had followed the strange tracks of their friends’ attackers to avenge them, only to be turned back by Mablung’s warriors, who had already slaughtered the invaders.

Now, as they waited for the Orcs fleeing across the plains to come to them, Oropher’s hand shook with rage at the sight of them and he knew he could only imagine the extent of the hatred felt by the Nandor, who had long suffered in the east at the Orcs’ hands.

“Our bows will not penetrate their iron armor, so your arrows must be well placed,” he heard his father, Cellon, ordering the Elves around them. “Aim for their face and neck or the spaces between the plates in their armor such as between their breastplate and shoulder pauldrons or under their arms.”

Denethor had asked Thingol to allow Cellon to fight with his warriors on the Western flank of the Andram. Though Denethor and Cellon were long sundered—since the time Cellon followed his heart and Thingol’s niece, Doroniel, instead of Lenwë when the King of the Nandor had led so many aside from the Great Journey—they were cousins, close kin, and dear friends. Besides that, Denethor knew that Cellon’s sons, Oropher and Engwe, and some other more heavily armed Sindar would join him in battle and that could only serve to strengthen his host.

Denethor’s horn sounded to the East of their position, signaling that the Orcs were within range of the army hidden in the Andram. Immediately afterward, horns blew from the Northeast and Northwest.

“Draw your bows,” Cellon ordered.

Oropher glanced quickly at his brother, Engwe, as he pulled an arrow from his quiver, fitted it against his bowstring and aimed at the throat of an approaching Orc. His brother and father did the same. As the sound of bending wood filled his ears, Oropher’s focus centered on that black target.

A moment later a final horn sounded—Thingol’s, the signal to fully join the battle.

Oropher loosed his arrow and, as he drew a second, he watched the first drive into the throat where it had been aimed. The Orc staggered back from the force of its impact and collapsed. By the time he lay writhing on the ground, Oropher loosed another arrow, felling another enemy.

Quickly the Orcs began to scatter, some turning from the mountains and others running east, to flank Denethor’s forces.

“Amdir, you and your archers keep driving the Orcs that have turned back north, but stay in the hills,” Cellon shouted. “The rest of you, with me. We need to stop as many as possible before they reach Wall’s End.”

Following Cellon with several dozen warriors, Oropher ran along the crags of the Andram, shooting at Orcs as he went. The further they pursued their enemy, the wider the Orcs swung from the hills and the harder they were to shoot. This difficulty was compounded by the fact that the Elves had a limited supply of arrows that was quickly diminishing.

As he searched for a shot that would not waste a precious arrow, Oropher growled in frustration. Beside him, his brother and several other warriors also hesitated. Finding no shot to take, Oropher turned his eyes to the slopes around him. He quickly spotted an easy path that led to the plain below and he began to descend the hills. Engwe and several of the younger warriors moved to follow him.

Eyes trained on the Orcs, focused solely on drawing within shooting range of them again, Oropher jumped when a hand closed around his upper arm. Turning, he saw Engwe. He scowled irritably at his younger brother before realizing that their father was yelling at him.

“Stay in the high ground, Oropher,” his father’s voice commanded.

Oropher’s scowl deepened. “We cannot hit them from this distance,” he shouted back, while pointing across the plain at the Orcs.

Cellon shook his head. “Too few of us are well enough armored to fight the Orcs at close range. We cannot lead unarmored warriors into the open and if those of us that are armored descend alone, our numbers will be no match for the Orcs. Stay in the hills,” he repeated firmly.

Oropher looked back at the Orcs, now fleeing well out of range towards the Wall’s End and briefly considered disobeying his father’s order. If they could not cull the number of Orcs that reached Denethor’s position, they would not be able to prevent the Orcs from escaping between the Wall’s End and Amon Ereb.

He felt Engwe’s grip tighten on his arm. “Come, muindor nin. This is no time to test adar. This is battle, not some fool adventure you have dragged us on. We do not know the full battle plan that lord Denethor and the High King are following. Adar does,” Engwe said softly.

Loosing an irate growl, Oropher continued eastward on the slope, not climbing higher, but not descending further either. They had only progressed a short distance when they heard a short, weak blast from Denethor’s horn.

Oropher turned to Cellon in time to see him look in the direction of the sound and signal the warriors with him to pick up their pace. No longer pausing to take shots at the fleeing Orcs, the Elven warriors raced over the hills of the Andram towards the Wall’s End.

By the time they reached it, Orcs were streaming between the Andram and Amon Ereb. Arrows rained down upon them from the hills, felling many, but there were not enough Elves to stop their escape. From the heights of the hills, Cellon’s warriors added their bows to those of the Elves already present. As he loosed arrow after arrow into the black river of Orcs below him, Oropher saw his father searching the hills around him.

“He led a group of archers to the plain, my lord,” Oropher heard a Nandorin Elf shout. “To try to cut off their escape.”

From the corner of his eye, Oropher saw his father frown at that. Oropher tensed as well. Orcs had overrun the shallow valley below. If Denethor was there, he was already lost.

At that moment, a host of Sindar, led by Thingol on his white steed, descended from the north, the starlight glimmering on their Dwarven armor. Amongst the Elves were Elmo, his son, Galadhon, and Oropher’s cousins, Celeborn and Galathil. Without waiting for his father’s order, and followed by his brother and several other young Sindarin Elves of his own generation, Oropher rushed down the slopes of the hills to join them.

A growling cry of rage arose from somewhere within Oropher as he charged towards the Orcs, drowning out his father’s shouted orders. He reached the line of fleeing Orcs and drove his sword into the neck of the first one he encountered. Oropher fell suddenly silent as the Orc screamed and cursed in pain before collapsing to its knees.

In the hills, firing arrows at the distant enemy, Oropher had kept a silent count of his kills, knowing that his friend Amglaur would be doing the same. They always competed to see who could bag the most pheasants or ducks during hunts. But as he added this Orc to his count—as this Orc clutched at his throat and spent his last gurgling breaths on curses—Oropher was reduced to staring at the creature’s pointed ears. Killing something, not to eat it, but simply to eliminate it; ending the life of something that spoke with words; watching at close range as it fell at his feet, writhing in pain, and feeling a sense of grim glee to see it die—that was a much different deed than hunting pheasants, he realized with a sudden wave of nausea. The words of the Nandor who had reported to Thingol that the Orcs were Elves twisted by Morgoth’s foul crafts rang in his ears.

A spike of pain in his arm brought Oropher’s attention back to the battle. He looked to his right to see an Orc shifting its stance to drive its blade up after swinging it across Oropher’s upper arm. The blow had cut through his boiled leather jerkin, but was turned by the mail he wore underneath. Oropher blocked the Orc’s swing with the knife in his left hand as he brought his sword up into the Orc’s gut with his right. Before the Orc had hit the ground, Oropher turned to square off with another.

Soon, cries of ‘To the King’ caused Oropher and the Elves around him to look about in alarm. Oropher loosed a long breath when he caught sight of Thingol’s silver helm. A moment later, parrying another blow and stabbing another Orc, his relief fled as he realized the call had been raised to rally to Denethor. Oropher scanned the terrain for the Nandorin King. He thought he glimpsed Denethor’s green banner on Amon Ereb and his suspicion was confirmed when Thingol and the Sindar around him surged towards the hill, cutting through Orcs in their path.

Oropher followed, also slaying Orcs as he progressed. As he neared the hill, Oropher saw Thingol’s warriors pause for a moment and then redouble their efforts, tearing through the fleeing Orcs as fire would consume the dry grass of the plain. But Cellon and the Nandor with him did not follow the High King. Instead they remained on the hill, silent.

Heart racing, Oropher pulled his blade from the gut of an Orc and ran to the hill. Next to Cellon, Oropher saw his younger brother Engwe. Engwe was wounded, though not badly. He stood to Cellon’s right, supporting him. Cellon’s tunic was covered in blood and for a terrifying moment, Oropher thought his father was wounded. Then he saw the reason why Cellon required his son’s support to stand. Oropher stood, frozen and staring at the hill in silent horror as the sounds of the battle receded into the distance.

On the Amon Ereb lay the bodies of many Orcs. Amongst them lay Denethor’s green banner, still clutched in the hand of the Elf that had born it. An arrow pierced his chest. The banner partially covered the body of its King.

Cellon dropped to his knees and gathered his cousin’s body into his arms as the battle raged around him.

*~*~*

And when Thingol came again to Menegroth he learned that the Orc-host in the west was victorious, and had driven Círdan to the rim of the sea. Therefore he withdrew all his people that his summons could reach within the fastness of Neldoreth and Region, and Melian put forth her power and fenced all that dominion round about with an unseen wall of shadow and bewilderment: the Girdle of Melian, that none thereafter could pass against her will or the will of King Thingol, unless one should come with a power greater than that of Melian the Maia. And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath, the guarded kingdom, Land of the Girdle. Within it there was yet a watchful peace; but without there was peril and great fear, and the servants of Morgoth roamed at will, save in the walled havens of the Falas.

But new tidings were at hand, which none in Middle-earth had foreseen, neither Morgoth in his pits nor Melian in Menegroth; for no news came out of Aman whether by messenger, or by spirit, or by vision in dream, after the death of the Trees. In this same time Fëanor came over the Sea in the white ships of the Teleri and landed in the Firth of Drengist, and there burned the ships at Losgar.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sindar

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“So Amglaur bested your count by two, is that correct, Oropher?” Galathil whispered in a teasing voice as they followed their fathers to the High King’s throne room. Beside him, Celeborn shook his head and laughed softly.

Oropher did not so much as look at his cousins in acknowledgement, but the corners of his mouth did turn down in a scowl, eliciting a snort from both Amdir and his younger brother Amglaur.

Oropher’s spine stiffened. That sound demanded a response.

“Amdir and Amglaur remained in a stationary position during the entire battle,” Oropher contested coolly. “While Engwe and I covered the eastern length of the Andram. Shooting while moving is a much more difficult skill...”

“As usual, Oropher cannot bear to admit he was bested,” Amglaur interrupted haughtily.

Pausing outside the doors to the Great Hall, and thereby forcing his grandsons to stop as well to avoid running into him, Elmo faced the younger Elves with a stern glare. “It is unimaginably insensitive and ill-mannered to make sport of the battle in which so many of your people, not to mention your own cousin, died. If you have no better sense, hold your tongues,” Elmo whispered angrily before turning and entering the hall.

The younger Elves looked guiltily at Elmo and lowered their eyes to the floor silently when they saw their fathers glaring at them as well.

“I fear it does not matter how many Orcs we all killed,” Celeborn said quietly as they took their seats a moment later. “We did not kill them all, nor did we eliminate their master.” He looked at Oropher. “I think we have done the last of the wandering that we will do for a long while, at least outside the forests. It is too dangerous. Luthien mentioned to me that the High King is considering enclosing the realm somehow to keep it safe.”

Oropher’s brother, Engwe, nodded. “I was speaking to one of Mablung’s officers. The king has sent messengers to encourage everyone to move within the forests. Most are heeding his call, I heard.”

“They would be fools not to after what we have seen,” Oropher said softly, though with a bitter tone.

Their conversation was cut short when Thingol and Melian entered the hall. Everyone present came to their feet as the High King and his Queen proceeded down the corridor formed by the benches where the nobles were seated to climb the stairs of the raised dais and stand before their thrones. Thingol seated his wife and then himself, gesturing for his courtiers to sit as well.

“I have assembled you to hear reports regarding how we have fared in our battles against the Orcs and to inform you of how I intend to protect our people from future attacks,” he began in a clear voice. “Let us begin by hearing from our captains regarding the success of our battles in the east and west.” He turned to Mablung, who was standing to the side of the assembled nobles. “Have we eliminated the enemy in the east?”

“Yes, my lord King,” Mablung replied, stepping forward and bowing at the waist. “Some of our warriors pursued the remaining Orcs into the mountains, where they met with the dwarves. Others were driven north, but very few Orcs returned whence they came. We believe that the lands between the Celon and the Gelion are once again safe.”

“Good,” Thingol replied, smiling grimly. Then he focused on Beleg, who stood with Mablung. “What of the lands west of the Sirion? Were you able to finally reach lord Cirdan in the Havens?”

Beleg nodded. “Yes, my lord King. The force that besieged the Falas has been broken. But when I spoke with lord Cirdan’s warriors, they told me that the host of Orcs withdrew northwards of their own accord—the Falathrim did not drive them back. That news concerned me. Fearing they might intend to assail some new target, my warriors and I followed their tracks as swiftly as possible. They go north towards Mithrim. I sent scouts in that direction to determine if our kin there need our aid. I expect their return within the week, my lord King.”

“Well done, Beleg,” Thingol replied. “And I am pleased to hear that Cirdan’s Havens are once again safe.”

Beleg frowned. “Forgive me, my lord King, but I am not certain that we can call the lands between the Narog and the Sirion safe. Returning from the Falas, we did skirmish with several bands of Orcs. And until we determine the fate of those that withdrew, we cannot know that the western lands are secure.”

Thingol nodded once in agreement. “Indeed that is true. And even after we are certain those Orcs have been destroyed, we can no longer be confident that more will not come in their place. I have no intention of leaving the safety of this realm to chance. Therefore, I have requested that all our people withdraw to the forests of Brethil, Neldoreth and Region.” He laid his hand over Melian’s, where it rested on the arm of her throne. “This will be the area that I will protect, with our Lady’s aid.”

Oropher and his cousins exchanged a curious glance upon learning the rumors that they had heard were true. Any whispers between them however were forestalled when Melian spoke.

“From this moment forth,” she declared, “I set around the forests of Brethil, Neldoreth, Region and Nivrim a mist of enchantment. All who try to cross the borders of this realm against the will of my lord will wander lost in shadow and confusion, failing to find entrance,” she said simply. And then she raised her voice in song. Her song was soft and clear as the nightingale, yet powerful and all who heard it listened in silent awe.

When she stopped singing, a soft murmur arose from the nobles in the hall, expressing amazement that such an enchantment could be achieved so effortlessly, but all remembered how Melian had stopped Ungoliant’s descent into Neldoreth, so they harbored no doubts that she was equal to this task.

Thingol silenced his nobles’ whisperings when he resumed speaking. “I have heard from most of my messengers that our people will heed my summons. The group that has offered the most resistance is the Nandor. They are reluctant to leave Ossiriand, though I still hope to persuade who ever they chose to succeed lord Denethor to lead them to Region.”

Oropher raised his eyebrows when his father stood, looking to Thingol for permission to speak. Thingol granted it with a nod of his head. “As you know, my lord King, Denethor, his sons and brother were all killed on Amon Ereb. I have spoken with my cousins that still live amongst the Nandor. It seems they have no intention of accepting another king. Their grief over the loss of Denethor is too great. And they dearly love the lands of Ossiriand. I doubt they will be persuaded to give up their homes after losing their king. They have suffered enough losses already.”

Thingol nodded gravely. “I certainly will not force them to move,” he said reassuringly. “And I will do what I can to protect them, but I can only guarantee the safety of those that live within the forests.”

As Cellon bowed and reseated himself, another of Thingol’s kinsmen, Ëol, made to stand. He wore an agitated expression. Before Thingol could acknowledge him, however, a page burst through the closed doors and ran into the Hall.

“Forgive me, my lord King,” he said breathlessly, not even bothering to bow. “You must come immediately. To see…the…I am not sure what it is, but you can see it from the Gates.”

Thingol looked at the page for a long moment, his courtiers silently awaiting his response to this strange interruption.

“I will come see it, whatever it may be,” he said finally, leading Melian from the dais.

*~*~*

Isil was first wrought and made ready, and first rose into the realm of the stars, and was the elder of the new lights, as was Telperion of the Trees. Then for a while the world had moonlight, and many things stirred and woke that had waited long in the sleep of Yavanna. The servants of Morgoth were filled with amazement, but the Elves of the Outer Lands looked up in delight; and even as the Moon rose above the darkness in the west, Fingolfin let blow his silver trumpets and began his march into Middle-earth, and the shadows of his host went long and black before them.

The Silmarillion: Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor

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Thingol strode out through the gates of Menegroth, pausing on the landing before stepping onto the bridge. A strange light, like that of many lanterns, made shadows dance on the ground before him. Groups of Elves stood in the clearings on the near and far sides of the bridge looking up silently, their eyes wide—some with amazement and delight and others with a hint of fear. Thingol could not help but follow their gaze.

When he turned, he saw a large, silver, gem-like disc rising in the western sky. Its light outshone the stars. Beams of silver illuminated the river below and it sparkled beneath him. All around him in the forest, tiny white flowers opened in the new light and birds began to sing as if in celebration of spring. Even the trees seemed to turn their branches towards the new silver glow.

“Is this some new evil sent from the north?” he heard one of his courtiers whisper as they joined him in staring at the mysterious object in the western sky.

“I do not believe that,” Elmo replied, awe in his voice. “It is magnificent, not evil.”

“Something evil would not bring the forest to life so,” Celeborn agreed.

The whispering continued around the High King as he studied the sky until Melian gasped. All present looked at her, but she was focused solely on the new light.

“That is Tilion,” she declared, pointing at the disk. “One of Oromë’s hunters. I knew him once.”

The Elves around her remained silent, staring between her, the High King and the light. Thingol was also fixed upon it and the light in his eyes resembled that in the sky.

“And the light itself is that of Telperion, unless I am very much mistaken,” he said softly.

Melian’s eyes widened but she nodded, gazing in wonder at the light. “This is no evil. It is sent by the Valar, but for what purpose, I do not know.”

The Elves that heard that pronouncement all turned back to gaze at the sky as a murmur rose and spread through the people standing in the forest. That the Light of the Two Trees would now be shared with all of Arda was a momentous event—what it signified, they dared not speculate.

*~*~*

Miles to the west and to the north, the light of the Moon glistened off the ice and the silver trumpet of the Elf that led them. The Noldor host struggled forward. Manarindë glared back at the light coldly. It offered no warmth for their journey. It was only a pale shadow of the glory of the Tree that bore it—all the Valar could muster in the face of their defeat. She turned her back on the west and trudged forward towards the promise of a new life.

*~*~*

Adar--Father

Muindor nin--My brother

*~*~*

AN: Some of the same OCs that appear in Interrupted Journeys will also appear in this story. It is not necessary to read that story to understand this one at all.

I have added very few OCs to canon family trees for this story--primarily to explain Oropher's relation to Elu Thingol and Denethor as I want to portray it. That is purely fiction on my part, but since Tolkien does not make those family trees entirely explicit, I have taken some license with them. Otherwise, I will stick to canon--feel free to let me know if I make a mistake. :-)

This story is not entirely complete, but I have it finished through the end of the First Age, so I think I am ready to start posting. I hope you enjoy.