RP 🎲 Of the Dagor Bragollach

Fingon turned his gaze towards the Maia as she spoke, and inclined his head in acknowledgment. He was fully expecting she would prophesy of only doom once more, as she had every other time, but her final words genuinely surprised him. It sounded like she was actually implying there was a glimmer of hope in their war against Morgoth. Hope. As in, there was a chance they could actually win here.

Not that he’d been doubting before, but if even the Maia of Mandos, the Vala who had pronounced their judgment long ago and seemed to know the future, was admitting the possibility of a positive outcome, then it had to mean something. Right? He tried to ignore the fact that she had brought up the Doom of the Noldor just a few minutes prior.

But then she spoke of victory through loss, and he paused. He hated the thought of losing any lives, especially if it can be avoided, and he always took special care to plan strategically for his soldiers in battle, to maximize effectiveness and minimize their losses. Of course, it was an inevitable fact that lives would be lost in any battle, and many will likely fall in the upcoming one, but it never got any easier when it happened. He thought of his brother Argon, and how he had been slain in battle before the gates of Angband shortly after their host had finally made it to Middle-earth, after years of marching across the Helcaraxë.

Fingon glanced around the room, knowing there was always a chance some of those present may not survive this battle, depending on how things went. Still, for every life tragically lost, in both the prior centuries and now, those who survived had to go on and continue fighting, to make the deaths of the fallen worth something. To prove they hadn’t died in vain for some lost cause. That’s what everyone was doing here in this meeting, in their decision to take Morgoth now, while they had the advantage over him.

With this in mind, Fingon replied back to the Maia. “It is true, Lady Amaniel, that we can never fully know the true intentions of what lies behind Morgoth’s actions, but we can at least be prepared for the factors we do know about. I'm not suggesting we be reckless, but we can do something about it while he sits in his fortress and hides. The fact that you have admitted there is hope in these times is heartening indeed, and I, for one, will accept it gladly.”

Hearing what the Dwarves said next though, disturbed him, and he furrowed his brow slightly in concern. They had encountered a Balrog somewhere in the Blue Mountains? Such news was unheard of, as far as he was aware; the siege had remained unbroken for the last 400 years, aside from some small skirmishes a couple hundred years ago. Had Morgoth been quietly expanding his realm in the depths of the earth all this time? Why would a lone Balrog be found so far southeast from Angband?

The Dwarves were visibly angry at the memory of this incident, and Fingon could understand why. They had lost a whole team of their own kind as a result of Morgoth’s cruelty. Something Fingon had heard before about Dwarves was that they were slow to forgive and quick to remember, and if anyone had earned their ire, it was Morgoth.

“That is most unfortunate to hear. You have my condolences for the members of the team you lost,” he said, touching a hand to his heart as a gesture of sincerity. “If you do not mind my asking, where was it within the Blue Mountains that this team encountered the B—“

Before he could finish, there was a sudden disturbance at the other end of the table, where Amaniel was at. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stand up sharply, and then she staggered backwards down into her seat again, seemingly upset and lost in her own thoughts. He tensed himself, preparing to jump up out of his seat to see if she was okay, but he saw his sister had beaten him to it.

Fingon watched their interactions closely, ready to help further if need be. However, his sister’s behavior wasn’t indicating any kind of emergency, and Amaniel, though seemingly still preoccupied with whatever was going on in her mind, dismissed Aredhel after a minute. He relaxed in his chair once more, though he still kept an eye on the Maia, just to be safe.

However, he couldn’t help thinking what everyone else probably was now too- what had just happened?

He spoke up, daring to interrupt her agitated thoughts. “Amaniel, is everything alright?”

For some time, Maedhros simply listened to everyone else speak, not saying a word. His experiences over the past several hundred years, in light of all the hot and volatile tempers from Men and Elves alike, had taught him to be increasingly careful when speaking, and to listen thoroughly before offering any of his own input. Despite that, he apparently hadn't been careful enough with Finrod, accidentally sparking the whole argument with a casual yet slightly negative comment about Thingol. While everyone here was so uneasy, Maedhros wanted to be absolutely certain he had an understanding of everyone's points of view before chiming in with his own.

However, the response of Amaniel to his question unsettled him. So, according to her, there was nothing of meaning to be done, and any victory they would manage to achieve would be short-lived? Then why was she here in the first place? Why were any of them here? If her words were true, perhaps everyone was better off packing up, returning to their respective homes and enjoying the peace while it lasted.

But, no, of course not. That wasn't, and never was, how Maedhros operated. He did not have the privilege of standing aside and watching others take action. Even though he probably had a justifiable excuse to do so after losing his hand, enduring unspeakable torture for decades, and being in some level of pain every day even hundreds of years later, he had never seen that as an excuse to back out of the fight. Morgoth was his problem, personally, even more so after Thangorodrim than before. And Maedhros felt personally responsible for every life here, and all those in his home kingdom of Himring. After all, his father Fëanor was the one to swear vengeance upon Morgoth and persuade the Noldor, and countless others in Beleriand, to join him in his fight. And now Fëanor was dead, and Maedhros was his eldest son. There was no closer link to Fëanor and his mission than Maedhros, as much as he had come to despise the Oath and the wars. The fact that he was no longer High King was irrelevant. Governing the Noldor may have been Fingolfin's responsibility now, but leading the war against Morgoth was still Maedhros' responsibility, and he wasn't about to back down from it just because of some ominous words from a Maia. Besides, when had he or his family ever obeyed the Ainur anyway?

Amaniel seemed to be gazing intently into his eyes with a half-sorrowful, half-disapproving look. She surely knew what Maedhros was thinking, but he gazed firmly back into her eyes. I'm not giving up. Not after all we've already been through. I can't accept that we're doomed to fail, he thought, with deliberation, almost as though he were speaking to her directly but not realizing that, in fact, he actually was.

Such is in your nature, Nelyafinwë Maitimo, came back her response, startling him to hear an actual response to his private thoughts. He had somewhat directed them at her, but not at all expected a reply. You are not your father, but you share his passion, and this obsession with carrying on his mission will be your undoing.

He shot back, the tone of his thoughts irritated, As if I have not already been undone.

Then he turned away from her and tried to ignore her and focus on the discussions of the others. The Maia did not say another word, but Maedhros could still feel her gaze seeming to bore into him.

Discussing the strategy of the upcoming battle and the necessary preparation of resources was a welcome distraction to him. Something external to think about that wasn't related to the fate of the mission, the emotional stress of the drama Finrod started, or having to wrestle with traumatic memories.

Fingon and the Dwarves were discussing the unfortunate event of a Balrog having attacked a team of Dwarves in their mines, and Maedhros' heart went out to them. Memories flashed through his mind of Fëanor charging after one shortly after arriving in Beleriand, and meeting a fiery end shortly afterwards. And then there were the Balrogs in Angband, seizing him with their fiery clawed hands...

Stubbornly forcing those memories out of his head, Maedhros spoke up alongside Fingon, offering his condolences to the Dwarves. "I'm very sorry that those creatures have taken some of your kin. That is a hard loss indeed. It is my sincerest hope that because of the alliance we now share, such a thing will not happen to anyone again."

Noticing that the young man Barahir had been quiet for some time, Maedhros turned to him. "What say you to all this, Lord Barahir? Are there any encounters your people have had recently with Morgoth or his foul servants?"

He added, contributing his thoughts to the discussion about Morgoth and his motives, "His strategies may be complex and guarded in secret, but his overall motive is very simple and easy to understand, for me at least. He loves all things dark, miserable, fearful, painful and chaotic. His greatest desire is to unleash those havocs wherever he sees fit. We may not be able to predict his specific moves or strategies, for he is indeed clever, but if we keep those things in mind and think from his point of view, and ask ourselves what would be the most brutally horrific thing for him to do at any given time, we may come closer to anticipating his actions."

No sooner had he said this when there suddenly seemed to be some commotion over by Aredhel's side of the table, and Amaniel was standing up suddenly, and Fingon was asking them about it. "Is everything all right?" he asked carefully.

Amaniel cried out in an impassioned voice, "I have spoken too much and revealed too much! These things you are about to see were not meant to be revealed at this time, and in fact even the littlest detail could alter Fate and Time. Mandos forgive me!"

She rose to her feet and fled swiftly from the room.

For it was what she had revealed which had caused young Lomion to reveal himself. Though she had willed the boy to keep silent, he could not fairly be expected to contain this fateful knowledge. He was not to be revealed yet to the rest of his family, and who knew what even a small deviation from Fate could implicate during such a delicate and crucial time?

it was not long after Amaniel shared those visions with Lómion when she abruptly left the room.
with the pain slowly fading and his mind clearing from its haze,he finally dared to think about what he had saw just a few seconds ago.
what was it that he had seen? where were day? was it ... Gondolin? it did look like how Aredhel had describe it with those high walls that glittered like pearls under the sunlight.
what was Eöl doing there?
before the string of thoughts could get further away, Lómion heard the cold yet angry voice of his mother through their osanwë connection.
"what do you think you're doing? why are you even here?"
he almost let out another whimper but stopped himself at the last moment. his mother had never,ever been this angry with him and if he was being honest he could not blame her.
he was so busy listening to the conversations and also conversing with Amaniel through their minds he had totally forgotten where he was and the consequences if he were to be found there.
he was not yet Fingolfin's grandson. neither he was Fingon's nephew or Maedhros' cousin.
he was just a dark elf who happened to be Aredhel's companion.
and even if Aredhel were to tell them the truth,how were they to trust him again after seeing him spying on them.
he had messed up big time and there was no going back.
"I-I'm sorry mother. I was just wandering around in the castle and happened to open this door to explore first. I didn't know your father had planned to hold a council in here. I would have avoided this room and the castle if you had just told me."
the implications about how Aredhel had not taken the time to even wish him a good morning since they had arrived was crystal clear.
he didn't want to be sarcastic about this but it was unfair of her to blame everything on him.
for how was he supposed to know?
"I don't need your attitude right now. you'll stay quiet until this meeting ends. I'm sure you know of the disagreements between my cousins so BELIEVE ME when I say we don't need anymore drama."
he sighed. why was she even telling him this. if it wasn't for Amaniel he would have stayed quiet until the meeting ended. she had not even asked him the reason for his pain. at this point Lómion didn't even care what was going to happen.
his back hurt and his feet had gone numb and he was hungry. all he wanted was a warm meal and his bed. he would be really thankful if they got this meeting and all its drama over with already.
And he really really wished to forget all about those visions.

Maedhros_Nelyafinwë said:

Noticing that the young man Barahir had been quiet for some time, Maedhros turned to him. "What say you to all this, Lord Barahir? Are there any encounters your people have had recently with Morgoth or his foul servants?"

Click to expand...

Barahir glanced at Maedhros:
''We have slain our share of the foul creatures, but there is something worse than orcs stalking the woods. Men speak of a monster, a beast of nightmare, in the form of a huge wolf, whose eyes glow with balefire, and whose teeth drip with blood. None can say for sure whether it exists or not, some say that the beast is real, others that it is no more real then the legends of the Mewlips, we use to frighten children with.

For my part, I did not believe it, not until I found something outside the gate of my families hall'', Barahir's voice sank to a whisper, and he shuddered, ''it was the footprint of a gigantic wolf''.

Aethelwulf said:

Barahir glanced at Maedhros:
''We have slain our share of the foul creatures, but there is something worse than orcs stalking the woods. Men speak of a monster, a beast of nightmare, in the form of a huge wolf, whose eyes glow with balefire, and whose teeth drip with blood. None can say for sure whether it exists or not, some say that the beast is real, others that it is no more real then the legends of the Mewlips, we use to frighten children with.

For my part, I did not believe it, not until I found something outside the gate of my families hall'', Barahir's voice sank to a whisper, and he shuddered, ''it was the footprint of a gigantic wolf''.

Click to expand...

"Aye, we Dwarves have indeed heard tales of this gigantic beast...though we have yet to lay eyes upon it." Telchar nodded forlornly.

Finrod shook himself as if out of a stupor. What was he thinking? And where had all that aggression boiled over from? It was quite unlike him and rather discombobulating he could act so brusquely with Maedhros. Sure, Maedhros had done wrong, and there was no overlooking it. Nevertheless, Finrod was ashamed to think the way he was acting was especially improper at a council in which all of them had gathered to unite against the true adversary. Not to mention it was he who had encouraged the Men and Dwarves to be present. This unwarranted interpersonal conflict within families was the type of discord Morgoth would have been snickering over like an Elfling if he could have witnessed it. Tearing one another down from within, oh no, how could have Finrod allowed bitterness to brew in him for as long as it had? Just because of a simple misinterpretation of something Maedhros had said, Finrod had clung to it as an excuse to snap everything he was drowning in. Worries for Nargothrond, worries for his brothers and sister, worries for his father and mother and Amarië, worries for Turgon... Turgon. It had been so long since Finrod had heard from his closest friend. Finrod had dearly hoped Turgon would make an appearance today, and his disappointment was great when he was not present. Aredhel had nothing to tell him, neither, even though Finrod likewise was Turgon's dearest friend. It made Finrod antsy, a storm stirring inside ever since he had arrived at the council, steeping him in a disgruntled haze.

Shaking his head, he merely listened as the discussions proceeded. Amaniel's episode and departure were a shock, and it left him feeling even more uneasy. Just what had she revealed of which was too much? As conversations about a dark beast began, Finrod was simultaneously again pondering his internal struggle.

As Telchar finished his thoughts, Finrod felt this would be an appropriate time to reintroduce himself into the council while also subtly making it clear to Maedhros he was genuinely apologetic on his part for the unnecessary developments between them. Unable to introspect any further, he cleared his throat, readying himself to supplement what he needed to say. Making eye contact with the group, he spoke with gravity and earnestness, "The concerns brought forth this day are all further validation for why we cannot wait much longer to march against Morgoth. Each of us arrived at this council ready to unite against our black enemy, and this is no coincidence of our hands we should be here. By the will of Ilúvatar, we have gathered this day." Finrod had to remind himself Turgon's absence did not mean Ilúvatar's will was flawed.

Finrod next nodded to Barahir and the Dwarves, "This beast you speak of is certainly a threat, and we do not minimize it. It may come to pass these events are connected to Morgoth's devises, and we will stand ready against them. In any case, all danger we shall approach with trepidation tempered by wisdom. There is no time for personal grievances"-- Here Finrod shot a sincerely apologetic look towards Maedhros, simultaneously a plea to speak later-- "while Morgoth hides away in his compound. We are all on the same side in the fight against Morgoth. It is only a matter of time as evil stirs, and if we permit the kettle sit too long, it may spout over and burn us before we can muster an advance." Finrod almost smiled, thinking he was of Turgon, who had a love for tea.

He spoke on, encircling the room with the outpouring of his thoughts. "Shall we now continue to remain tucked away here whilst darkness reigns? We fight not alone. Ilúvatar has not forsaken us. We are not meant to stay oppressed forever, yet we must do our part in deeds and not only in speech." Having finished stating for now what he ought, Finrod inhaled deeply and allowed others to respond. He hoped it would be enough.


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Far away, in the hidden city of Gondolin, Turgon was seated, staring down at a slowly cooling mug of tea. His fingers tapped along the side, creating a rhythmic donk-donk-donk as a backdrop to his swirling thoughts. The missive his father Fingolfin had sent him, passed along by Thorondor, lay heavy on his mind as well as before him on the table. "...My son, if thou deemeth such possible, I hope you would unite with us once more in the fight against our black foe in the hope of freedom from his evil forevermore..."

A council was gathering to discuss what should be done to oppose Morgoth. Turgon had only today before the rising of the sun made his decision, the day of the council. Was he playing the fool doing what he had only allowed once before... with most unfortunate results? Although he doubted this time anyone would vanish. Yet here he was again about to risk Gondolin's secrecy. Had he not wanted to fight? Many reasons there could be Turgon was doing the unthinkable... again.

Turgon was restless. Yet Ulmo's command to build his kingdom in isolation had led him to this place, and would he not be disrupting this, his beautiful city's safety, by his choice of activity? Morgoth had done much to hurt his kin. It was because of Morgoth Valinor had darkened. It was because of Morgoth he had lost Elenwë. It was because of Morgoth he had to flee here. He was not upset about the last one truly, for he loved Gondolin and his people dearly. Turgon recognized even from such evil could great good come.

Turgon had to admit selfishly part of his reasoning for today's decision was both his best friend Finrod... and his sister Aredhel. How long she had been missing, unforseeably separated from her escort, the search for her long ago abandoned in despair. Was this council a means of allowing that mission to be undertaken once again on the side? Foolish perhaps, but Turgon could not shake the thought she might be still alive. He himself could not seek her, for he must tend his people.

This left one clear option, both for his national and personal hopes (though he would not mention those). Turgon had sent Idril to summon him. She did not even know what "atrocity" her father was about to commit again in this risk. But it had to be worth it. A cause worth fighting for. Turgon sighed, stopped drumming his fingers, and took a sip of his tea. Wincing at the tepid taste, he regretted waiting too long. He could only hope he had not done the same in matters much greater.


---


The white city was pristinely quiet in the pre-dawn light. All was silent throughout-- barely a person was stirring, not even a mole. As Anor rose, sunbeams spilled slowly over and between the jagged spikes of the Crissaegrim to turn the sky from dark gray to deep blue with hues of gold. One figure sat completely still on the mini-roof of his balcony as he always did, drinking in the miracle of the morning. The rays of Laurelin's last fruit reached out to gently brush his face with a warm, golden kiss. Closing his eyes, the Elf inhaled the crisp air deeply and released it with complete satisfaction. The miracle of the morning never got old. In the next moment, his silent vigil was broken by a shout below.

"Lord Glorfindel!"

Glorfindel blinked once out of his reverie and peered down past his balcony, molten golden locks slipping over his shoulders. A blue-and-gold clad lady stood below. "I am remiss to disturb your tradition, but my father requests your presence immediately."

"It is not a worry, my lady. I watch Arien traverse her course every morning," Glorfindel replied in his resonant voice, leaping instantly off the roof, over balcony and all, and onto the sturdy trellis in a familiar maneuver, nimbly climbing down to his princess.

Idril laughed, breaking formality. "You look like a cat whenever you do this."

"And you look like the sun I just watched rise," Glorfindel complimented with a wide grin, and she laughed sheepishly.

"Ever the charmer you are, always returning cheer for 'insult'," Idril smiled as they strode up the steps to the council hall. This turned both their thoughts to the matter at hand.

"What does my lord wish to see me about?" Glorfindel asked, opening the door for her.

"Thank you, my lord. I do not know," Idril furrowed her brow thoughtfully, "but it was most urgent."

"I hope it's not yet another subtle push to tell Ecthelion to stop letting his swans chase Salgant around the courtyard," Glorfindel jested, and Idril laughed with him as they reached Turgon's conference chamber.


---


Dearly beloved laughter broke Turgon out of his thoughts, and he promptly rose to open the door before a knock could sound. There was no backing out of his choice now. With the confidence of a king, Turgon greeted his daughter and dear old friend.

"Come, sit, I have much to discuss," Turgon ushered Glorfindel to a seat while Idril positioned herself at the window ledge as was her usual, opening the curtains for the breeze to enter.

Pouring cups of hot tea for everyone as they settled, Turgon decided, like the tea, the news was best served quickly: "Glorfindel, I would like to send you on a journey to Hithlum."

A gasp from Idril made itself known as a silence like that of a snowfall drifted over the room. Glorfindel closed his eyes and appeared pensive while Turgon looked on with trepidation though determination. He thought, If not him then who else?

"Father..." Idril began, but Glorfindel opened his eyes and looked at Turgon straight on: "I will do it my lord. What is your reasoning behind this action?"

And with that response of willingness, Turgon felt a release of greater hope within him. As if choice had determined a course of fate. Did it not always? Ilúvatar was guiding.

Turgon opened the missive from Fingolfin and explained everything.


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War council with Fingolfin...
An opportunity to take the offensive...
Ilúvatar is working, and our time is at hand...
Will we not risk our city's defenses, Father?...
Did Ulmo not promise we would be the last Elven kingdom to stand?...
He speaks with the voice of one who was with The One...
Only 40 leagues by the missive...

Glorfindel rode atop his mare with winged speed, appearing from a distance as a gold and green blur mingled with a white streak. His thoughts tumbled like a cloud on the backdrop of the sky, vying for his attention. Chunks of the meeting with Turgon buzzed in and out of the forefront of his mind. It was all a blur to him as was the countryside in his peripherals. Though Turgon's request had surprised him deeply, he first searched within for guidance, seeking Ilúvatar's will. And he felt deep within it was right. Even if there were risks they had to take with the safety of the city. They would not proceed without caution certainly, but they would proceed nonetheless. Idril had not been so certain. But won over by the steadfastness of Turgon and the spirited confidence of Glorfindel, she too was convinced of the path needed to be taken. They finished discussing what was required, and Glorfindel immediately prepared to leave for Hithlum. He left a brief note for Ecthelion as to why he would not be on patrol with him that day and left the city as stealthily as possible. The sun was high in the fair blue sky, serenading him on his journey.

Glorfindel was just over the 4-hour mark by Anor's position when he spotted far ahead a lone maiden. She spotted him, too, and waved. Glorfindel decelerated his approach and came to a gentle stop beside her. He could see distress written in her features though it was well-concealed by... relief? recognition? How did she know him?

"Hail and well met, my lady. Do you require assistance?"

"You have come. So both have chosen." She said, more to herself, then coughed and excused herself. Addressing him, she released a wave of words as if forced, "I-- I have made a terrible mistake... Possibly changed everything... You must fly. Warn them. Things are now in motion I cannot stop." She gestured behind her to what Glorfindel now assumed was Hithlum. He had arrived sooner than anticipated.

"What do you mean by a mistake? How have you changed things?" Glorfindel studied her closely. She radiated an aura he recognized though he did not know her.

"I have said too much. Forgive me, my lord." The female shuddered. "They are coming."

Glorfindel felt a shiver pass down his spine. His horse shifted beneath him, feeling his unease. This maiden knew things. "Who are they, my lady?" He inquired gently.

"He-- he who must not be named." The maiden looked past him as if searching. Her face darkened. "There... He is coming. You must go."

Glorfindel followed her gaze. To his alarm, the faint silhouettes of an army of the forces of Morgoth were approaching slowly but steadily. They were undoubtedly on their way to attack Hithlum. The wrath of Morgoth had finally boiled over! "Lady, how do you know this?" He swiftly turned back to her.

"I do not have time. Forgive me, Glorfindel. Do not tarry here. You must alert the council. Follow the pine trees." The lady turned and pointed out the direction.

Glorfindel stopped watching the enemies' labored approach and followed her point. "Thank you, my lady." He looked back at where she was and was met with empty air.

No time to tarry, Glorfindel reminded himself, breaking out of his momentary shock. "Noro lim, noro lim, Nimfaloth!"

The majestic pair bounded forward and left behind the shadows of what was to come. It wasn't until Glorfindel had passed the boundary of Hithlum when he realized: She had known his name.

Glorfindel on his faithful Nimfaloth galloped towards the rocky slopes of the Ered Wethrin. It was a race against time to reach the council at the fortress of Barad Eithel as the approaching army of Morgoth marched behind him. A weight of oppression hung heavy like a fog the closer to the mountains Glorfindel sped. A feeling of tipping over the brink of disaster spurred deep in his heart, and this thought pursued Glorfindel to the gates of the fortress. There, Glorfindel looked back to witness destiny.

The hordes of Morgoth had picked up the pace. A dark mass moved at a fever pitch over the plains, and Glorfindel could almost hear the clanking of metal and roaring of many discordant voices. As if a shadow was covering the sky, the brightness of Anor was dimmed by the drawing near of the forces of evil.

The plains of Ard-Galen erupted in a surge of reds and oranges in the midst of a screen of greens and browns. The lush canvas of the land was swiftly turned into a drab playground for the painters who eschewed the paint forth from their mouths. Mixed in with the sights were the sounds of crackling as the paint leapt to life over the dusty and dry-to-be landscape. The sky in response took on a strange tinge as clouds of smoke billowed upward as if from a kettle. The Dagor Bragollach had begun.

Time rushed in precious seconds like a waterfall. Glorfindel hardly remembered pulling his gaze from the advancing armies and galloping through Eithel Sirion to be admitted into the council. The paint continued to rise in a blaze of sunset-colored waves in his mind's eye. This art of Morgoth's designs would only distort and destroy.

A voice Glorfindel knew well called him from his thoughts as he galloped into the council to the surprise yet gladdening of many hearts. He drew up to a stop and leapt off steady Nimfaloth's back. For half a moment, he forgot his purpose as he stared into the face of one who had been lost...

"Aredhel?"

She gazed back at him. A plea was in her eyes but not shame. Learning the answer to this riddle would have to wait. Glorfindel understood there would be much to say and learn.

Glorfindel simultaneously inventoried everyone else gazing in wonderment at him, and he recalled the threefold urgency which had carried him on this mission. More and more precious seconds were draining away. Morgoth's army was surely almost at the base of the Ered Wethrin...

"My lord Turgon of Gondolin sent me hither, yet a greater matter has arisen as not foreseen, though aided in his purpose. A host of Morgoth's armies are at the present marching for Hithlum. Dragons have set fire to the plains of Ard-Galen, and more forces of his hand come to us as well." Glorfindel's turning the situation into a universal matter brought a collective battle-mind attention from the group.

Glorfindel continued, "They will be here in little time. We must prepare for war, for they will be upon us as swiftly as they may!" He bowed to Fingolfin and the council.

Fingolfin drew Ringil and held it aloft, confidence and determination flooding from him to everyone in the chamber. "This is not chance, indeed none of this timing is, whatever may be said. It is well you have come to warn us, Glorfindel of Gondolin. My heart rejoices to hear my son's involvement, yet there is time not for pleasantries."

Fingolfin's eyes blazed with purpose, a fire in them rivaling the ones devouring the plains of Ard-Galen. He commanded authority as he raised his gleaming blade in defiance of Morgoth. His booming voice rang with the same steadfast stubbornness which had brought him over the Helcaraxë and thus far. "Now is the time we must do what we have purposed to do. This day-- nay, this hour-- we fight, for Ilúvatar goes with us!"

The council of war dissembled business into battle, and each member felt keenly the destiny awaiting all.

Finrod silently thanked Ilúvatar for the timely arrival of Glorfindel as he learned of the participation of Turgon. As Fingolfin stirred the council's hearts, Finrod found himself standing next to Maedhros. There was an amicable, mutual understanding between them which had lingered from Finrod's speech prior to Glorfindel's entrance. A clasp of left forearms, a look passing symbiotically, indicated all was forgiven.

Fingon observed his cousins from the other side of Maedhros and nodded in silent approval. Now the inner dissension was solved, the real problem at hand could be dealt with all united. Fingon was delighted his brother had sent Glorfindel, knowing how difficult that decision must have been. He was proud of the sacrifice which had providentially made such a critical difference in preparation for Morgoth's ambush.

Aredhel, on Fingon's other side, wished she had time to speak with Glorfindel. She had to explain, to hear of everyone and everything she had loved and, yes, missed. Yet she searched her heart and found not regret for the sake of Lómion-- Lómion! A glance to his hiding spot showed he was peeking out, staring at Glorfindel as well. Lómion's face was a mix of shadows, but most prominently present was the look of one who must fight. Could he reveal himself in such circumstances? Aredhel knew the choice did not belong to either but destiny.

Lómion took a deep breath as he listened to the magnificent golden warrior's announcement of impending fate. He had felt an instant desire to take part in the battle. Then doubt assailed him. Then fear. Then need. Whether he wanted to fight or not would not be an option... There was a doom upon himself which Lómion perceived was beyond his understanding, and he nonetheless chose to accept it despite conflicting states of mind. He would like to remain near the golden warrior-- Glorfindel was his name, his mother had called-- since Lómion sensed a great doom upon him. Remembering his mental conversation with Amaniel, Lómion took a deep breath and emerged from the shadows in symbolic way of taking a new doom upon himself. Perhaps fate would not bring him to fall and ruin.

Barahir and the Dwarves murmured amongst themselves. This was much more serious than just a dangerous beast! They hefted their weapons in strength of mind and clarity of reason. Whatever the course of action, they straightened, would be done in unity with the will of the One. This was the reason they had come after all, seeking a means of bringing evil down. Here, the darkness was come to them first, but the light could not be blotted out.

The alarms raised from Barad Eithel spread to the far borders of Hithlum. The whole of the region readied for imminent attack. The storm clouds of fire and decimation climbed the mountains, and Hithlum trembled to meet like so. And Morgoth came.