Daedhelos (Anfauglith, June 472 F.A.) {The Corrupted/Saeros}

At Menegroth

So often had she sought him in her dreams; the golden haired elf with whom her fate was surely and completely twined; the same one who had turned his back and walked away from her; northward. Long had Amariel cried at his departure; it seemed her tears had been unending, though even so when the full of day had passed and night had come upon her; Amariel had lain to rest; weary of her sorrows and fears.

She had fallen back into her dream sleep, and her Saeros came to mind, suddenly as in a darkened glade in the deeps of the forest. Fleeting; distant, far off, but it was he, and they stood, looking upon one another, lost in ethereal moment, never speaking, but the sound of the nightingales would be heard overhead, whether it was in dream or simply the birds of Menegroth singing loudly through her sleep, Amariel did not know.

For weeks this had gone on. Some nights the sleep was longer; more restful, and Saeros stood nearby; near enough that she could reach out and touch his fingertips, or reach up and touch his fair cheek. The stars would twinkle overhead, and reflect in his eyes. On Midsummer's Eve they stood together, and both his hands were within hers; but the green light of his eyes was dimmed that night, and there were no stars in the sky. The forest which had surrounded them on all other nights was missing; and they stood on a wall, overlooking a long, wide, dusty plain.

The days continued on in Menegroth as always; the though festivities of Midsummer's Day had a dull tone to most, for they knew that the Union of Maedhros was gathering at Anfauglith, and there were only two fates to be decided. If Maedhros would have victory; he would descend next upon Doriath seeking the Silmaril which Thingol held fast against him. If Maedhros would lose; the forces of Morgoth would keep control of the north and swarm over all Beleriand.

Amariel was not certain which fate was better.

The next night, there was no vision; no dream. Nothing. Nor the day following. Amariel pressed herself from sleep; each time she would drift to her dreams and turn to emptiness she would wake herself, and refuse to take rest, and the third day passed by; the fourth, the fifth. Amariel sat upon her bed through the reaches of the night, her body trembling in exhaustion, while her sister sought to offer her comfort.

“Rest,” Ninien insisted. “It may be that they travel at queer hours; with odd circumstances in days such as these, you cannot be sure that they take rest at night,” she pressed. Still, Amariel's eyes would not let her mind drift away, and stared off into the gold and silver leafed carvings upon the ceiling, and when dawn was breaking upon the new day, she left the caves to seek their tree.

Climbing up, up, into the cleft where she had sat so often with Saeros she settled herself. The butterflies fluttered about in the sunlight, and beneath the boughs in the deep shade, the dusty moths would flutter and cling to the bark of the tree, while the singing of the birds was all the louder though no comfort to Amariel's shattered heart, which was ripping in her chest. Her tears began to fall down her cheeks in silver trails, following the paths that had become almost painted upon her face.

The boughs were so lofty and rocking slightly in the summer breeze, and the scent of the tree lulled her, and it was not long before Amariel was unable to keep her focus on the buzzing of the bees and the scent of the wild roses. Her mind slipped finally into dream thought he sun was lifting in the sky.

---

At Anfauglith

Before her was a burned and desolate wasteland. Three mountains rose up amid the desolation; fires and fumes rising from their pits, and a stench mixed with the dust of the earth and the heat; a stench which made Amariel gasp and choke, and she clutched at her throat, unable to breath. Anfauglith. She knew the sight; so painted in memory had it been to her by Celegorm in years past, with his tales of deeds and the battle of Dagor Bragollach.

Looking to the ground she saw not her feet; but blood stained dirt; black and red, and charred bones. Suddenly sound wrought the air; though not the sound of Melian's birds, but the sound of screaming, wailing, crying. She tried to clutch her hands to her ears to muffle the torment, but when she touched her face she felt wetness upon her own cheeks; tears streaming down and uncontainable.

Amariel wheeled around in horror and it was then she saw the legions and host of Morgoth; the air thickened with the stench of trolls, of blood. The metallic clash and ring of sword and scraping metal. The great roar of beasts un-named and un-spoken of which had poured from the secret doors of Thangorodrim along with the living fires and shadows.

Arrows flew, swords crashed. The glinting helms of elf and man were dinged with thickened liquid, ground with dirt. Men screamed and groaned in agony, and beasts of all kinds let cry battle song and screech from their throats. Running toward her an orc, grotesque as only she had heard; clad in black armor with a mace on a chain; raised, swinging at her head as it shouted a battle cry. It's open mouthed teeth were pointed, red, dripping with blood and gore. Amariel stood striken in horror, unmoving as the ball was cast through the air to strike her down. She screamed as it whooshed through her, and turned just in time to see it strike across the face of one behind her.

Calling yet it scrambled for it's next victim, and Amariel looked down to the ground as the body crumpled at her feet; red liquid leaking from the gash upon his brow, his helm rolled back to reveal pointed ear and black hair, and his blue eyes stared lifelessly upward as a last breath left his lungs. Engrenil. A friend of her Adar's, who once had crossed the Grinding Ice with her parents; who had once sat laughing and playing the music of the harp and lyre before their hearth in Nargothrond, and sung to her songs of Telperion and Laurelin. Blood mingled with the silver tears streaked upon his face.

Amariel was screaming, though she could not hear her own voice over the din of warfare, and the roaring of the enemy. She had not even seen the harried warg leaping near; smelling the fresh kill and wanting to re-invigorate itself. With a raspy growl the creature bounded upon the fallen Engrenil, and it's fangs sank into his flesh, tearing and consuming.

No louder could she wail at the sight, and she stumbled backward, falling onto the rust colored earth and feeling the slick of lost life beneath her hands. Amariel crawled until she could pull herself back to her feet and stumbled, spun, choked. The beast which had just feasted bounded pasted her again, onward to it's next victim, and Amariel turned and saw the remains of the harpist, then shielded her eyes in horror.

A clear horn rang out upon the dusty plain which drew her eyes further afield, and there waving upon a pike the banner of blue and silver; the esquire of the High King of the Noldor. Yet this was of certain no Dagor Bragollach, for Fingolfin had fallen years ago; and the King who rode beneath the banners was none other than Fingon himself. She could see his long, dark braids plaited with gold, with the orangey-grey light cast behind him, and heard his strong voice calling out. “Lacho calad! Drego morn!” Flame light, flee darkness!