Notes.

Thank you for reading so far! We are only in the middle of the story, so nothing, of course, has ended.  I am posting two chapters today, because I am travelling this weekend. 

It rains. Rain abated while we carried our dead and wounded from the battlefield, but now it is pouring down again. It quenches the last flames, washes away some of the dust and blood. I remove my helm and raise my face to the sky; water tastes clean and sweet on my lips, and a little salty at the same time. Whether that is because the clouds are borne from the Sea or it is the salt of my own tears, who can tell? And does it even matter?

“Is this indeed over?”

I turn at the sound of a quiet voice beside me. Ingwil also looks skywards. Ash and blood cover his face. His eyes are red-rimmed; the war has etched lines of grief on my kinsman’s face. I hesitate only briefly ere I lay my hand on his shoulder.

“I hope so. I sincerely hope so.”

Suddenly a loud clamour comes from the fortress. Startled, we turn towards it, in time to see Tulkas throwing open its black gates. The host of Valar and Maiar passes inside and emerges again after a while, dragging a dark figure with them.

“That...” Ingwil whispers. “Is that...”

“Moringotto,” I reply softly. “It must be him.”

Frozen, we watch the Black Enemy of the World, as Fëanáro has named him. Moringotto is tall, taller than Eönwë, but his form radiates rather malice than strength. His eyes burn like coals in his scarred face, his lips are twisted in hatred. Even from afar I feel the darkness of his spirit, the ill-will that has long since ousted anything even remotely resembling honour. And I feel his fear. He struggles in vain against Tulkas and Oromë who hold him firmly. The crown upon his head blazes with the light of two hallowed jewels. Eönwë takes it off, and the Valar drag Moringotto away. Eönwë remains, together with Aulë. The Smith frees the Silmarils, then he hands the jewels to Manwë’s herald, takes the crown and follows the other Valar.

“It is over now.” My cousin sighs in relief.

I give him a weak smile. “Yes. It must be.”

We are mistaken.

There is a council not a long while later.

“We shall raze this fortress to the ground and destroy its foundations,” Eönwë says gravely. “But first it must be searched for captives. You should...” He falls silent and considers us closely. “Can you do it? For what you may find beyond those gates...”

“We shall do it, my lord Eönwë,” Ingwil asserts. “If there are captives, it is our duty to free them.”

“Very well,” replies the Maia. “But be wary. There may be many dangers in that evil place. Take sufficient force with you.”

Ingwil bows and turns to go, to gather his men, and I follow him to do the same. As I leave, Eönwë sighs and looks away. Why?

I understand that flicker of sympathy only when we enter the Hells of Iron. We have confronted countless Moringotto’s servants. Violence and bloodshed have hardened us. But nothing of what we have encountered during the years of war has prepared us for what we face now.

An overwhelming sense of evil encircles us as soon as we pass the broken gates. I shudder and struggle for air. It has been dark outside too, with the clouds and the coiling fumes ever obscuring the light of the sky, but inside, the darkness is other, it is nearly a being of its own. The light of the torches we carry is dimmed, almost quenched. After the rain-washed air on the field, here it reeks of filth, gathered for centuries. It reeks of blood and rotting flesh.

Our footsteps echo in vaulted hallways; there is no other sound. Angamando is empty of enemies. Moringotto’s creatures have all been sent out to battle, and they have all perished in the last desperate fight or fled to the mountains. But signs of their abiding and of their deeds are there.

Closest to the entrance are deep pits with sturdy leashes fastened to the walls; likely a place for keeping Wargs, the beastly steeds of the Orcs. We step closer. When we see what litters the ground in these pits.... Bones. Gnawed bare of flesh. Bodies, shredded to pieces. Torn, rotting limbs. Remnants of… animals, surely? Let them be just that, remnants of deer, of elk, of mountain-goats. Please, Ilúvatar. Merely beasts. Please.

But… The hope – the self-deception – crumbles to dust. The beasts have been feeding on people.

Gasps of horror sound around me. Someone staggers back dropping the torch. I am—

A keen wail pierces the stale air. Something moves in a shadowed corner of the furthermost pit. Drawing blades, we raise torches for more light, and then we wish we had not done so.

One of those thrown to the Wargs still lives if life that may be called. In the dim half-light it is not possible to tell whether it is one of the Eldar or one of the Atani, a woman or a man. Covered in blood and gore, the shape is writhing and screaming in agony, slowly moving towards the middle of the pit. The faces of the Noldor and the Vanyar are white as chalk.

I suddenly recall my nightmare in Valinórë, an image of a dark prison and red froth dripping from the fangs of a wolf-like creature. Shuddering, almost against my will, I approach the edge of the pit and descend the crude ladder to the bottom. Each step on the slippery floor is a struggle against fear and revulsion, but at last I kneel beside the figure on the ground and force myself to look straight at it.

It is one of the Men. Layers of dried blood cover his face, his once-golden hair and beard, agony distorts his features. His right arm and both his feet are chewed off, half-eaten, his stomach is shredded open. It is a wonder he still lives. Even were he an Elf, there would be no healing for injuries such as these.

Somehow, the Man senses my presence. He is mad from pain, but his gaze suddenly clears when it meets mine. His eyes are like summer sky in places where the Sun still shines.

“Please...” whisper the bloody lips in-between wails of anguish. “Please...”

I draw my dagger. At the sight and sound of it, relief flickers in the blue eyes. He stops writhing and lies still, with merely occasional shudder running over his body. I thrust the blade in his heart; his eyes slide shut, and dead silence falls.