Goblets are raised!
"A laita tárienna!"
Mighty are their voices -
"We have bled for Endor!"
"A laita tárienna!"
"And our Mánër are like imperishable flames!"
"A laita tárienna!"
"And Mandos will burn with their fire!"
"A laita tárienna!"
The young elf stands there, shy, confused... he understands not their ardour.
All these tall warriors, with their strong voices and blazing eyes...
"And Moringotto shall tremble upon his cowardly throne!"
"Násië!"
"For we will shatter his towers and throw him into darkness, where he belongs!"
"Násië!"
"And the light that once illuminated the world SHALL BE SET FREE AGAIN!"
The elf with the fiery red hair holds his goblet upwards to the skies, and the light of dawn mingles with the radiance of his eyes, and the flames of the campfire rise high.
The companions rise their goblets too -
"It shall be set free again!"
"Násië!"
"For you, O LIGHT that was before sun and moon, we went through darkness and pain and despair! For you we would go to to the world's end!"
"And forever burn the Fëar of our Mánër in Mandos!"
"A laita tárienna!"
The young elf stands there, motionless, wondering about the strange words...
Wondering about these weird folk, so proud and merry, drinking and laughing and speaking about great achievements...
But after a while, one of them glances at him, and makes a gesture to the others.
They turn around, looking at him.
"Come here, Yonyo!" says the elf with the red hair.
The lad approaches, slowly, looking around, very insecure.
"What are you doing here, Yonyo? This is no place for children. We belong to the cavalry of the Lord Macalaurë."
The young elf frowns.
"I am not a child. I am fifty!"
"Ohoh. Looks like he is trying to teach you a lesson, Alcanáro!" they laugh.
But the elf with the red hair crosses his arms, studying the lad with narrowed eyes.
"Where are you from, Yonyo?"
"Thargelion."
"And what has brought you to Lothlann?"
The young elf loweres his head.
"I was sent to join the cavalry... the cavalry of... of my Lord M-macalaurë."
The elf with the red hair, addressed as Alcanáro, looks back at the others, and they laugh again:
"Apparently Lord Carnistir wants to send all women and children of Lord Macalaurë to Lothlann so they may storm Angamando!"
"I dream of the day when a woman seizes a Silmarillë and defeats Moringotto, just to tell you how much of a worthless worm you are, Lairwë."
"One of those dreams that never come true, eh?"
But Alcanáro takes a few steps toward the young lad, and asks:
"Serve in the cavalry. I see.
What have they taught you in Thargelion, Yonyo? What have you learned so far?"
The young elf blinks.
"I can sculpt. I can ride a horse. I can read. I can write. I know the history of our people."
Alcanáro raises his eyebrows.
"Then all you are good for at this moment is escaping the battle on horseback."
The lad frowns.
"I will not run away."
"How can you know?"
The elf addressed as Lairwë steps forward. His voice sounds like a deep gnarl.
"Come with me, Yonyo. Let me show you something."
He leads the lad around the campfire, to a great tent.
They enter.
Torches are illuminating the interior.
Weapons and armour.
An ugly helmet, split in two, on a table.
"What is this?" asks the young elf.
"An orc helmet. We killed him in the north. He was a scout, wanted to check our fortifications."
Lairwë takes the helmet, looking down at it in disgust.
"Ugly business. Brain and blood splashing around."
The lad frowns.
"War is an ugly business, Yonyo. However, everything you see here is made to ensure a happy end" gnarls Lairwë and puts the orc helmet down.
He walks over and takes a large war-bow.
"Peng. Ohtacárë."
Handing it over to the young elf, he adds:
"Draw it."
The lad pulls the string. Nothing happens. He pulls as hard as he can...
Lairwë utters a short laugh.
"This Peng was crafted carefully, so its arrows may pierce armour. You do not possess the strength to fully draw it. I think... you would not make a good archer."
He walks over to another table. The lad follows him. Swords of different sizes and lengths. Some are short and thick. Others slim. Many are long and well-shaped. One sword is too large for the whole table, it rests in a special cupboard.
"But you may be a good Macar. You surely know, swords are our greatest pride. Our enemy fears the swordsmen of Fëanáro!"
He takes a short, broad-bladed sword and hands it over to the young elf.
"Here, take this Ecet. Now attack me."
"W-what?"
"I said: attack me!"
The lad blinks. Finally, he raises the blade and swings it at Lairwë.
Within the blink of an eye he finds himself on the ground, weaponless.
Lairwë puts the sword back and rubs his chin. "Hmmm."
He takes a long sword this time. "Apparently the Ecet does not suit you. Try this Andamacil."
The young elf stands up, confused. He grabs the new sword.
"Attack me again."
But something intercepts the clumsy attack. The lad has lost his sword. Lairwë, having parried with another blade, furrows his eyebrows.
"No talent with swords, it seems."
The young elf protests.
"I can learn! Let me try with the big one over there!"
Lairwë sighs.
He gives the young elf a pityful look and walks over to take the large sword.
The weapon has the length of about six feet.
Holding it with both hands, the lad realizes how big it is. He looks up at the tip of the blade.
"The Falquan is a mighty weapon, but it depends on how you wield it" gnarls Lairwë.
"Now attack me again."
The lad makes a desperate swing.
Without haste, Lairwë moves to the side.
Another desperate swing. Lairwë moves to the right side this time.
The Falquan hits the ground again.
Another clumsy swing. But Lairwë has moved around the attacker, standing almost behind him.
"Give me the weapon, Yonyo. This is a sword, not an axe. No need to chop the ground like a Casar" he mutters.
Breathing hard, the lad hands over the weapon.
"You are not swift enough to wield such a blade. But then again...you do not seem suitable for swords at all."
He narrows his eyes, studying the young elf.
"Well. I will give you a weapon that is easy to wield."
He almost sounds disappointed.
From another table, he takes a short spear.
"Take this Ehtë. I hope you are a better Ehtyar than Macar."
The lad takes the spear, hesitating.
"From horseback, just spear everything that comes in your way. In formation, just do what the others do. That is all I can tell you for now."
Outside again, a harsh wind has begun to blow. The banners flap like wounded seagulls trying to escape doom in mid-air.
"A spearman it is!" the warriors laugh.
The young elf frowns.
"Seriously, Alcanáro... this Yonyio is not made for war. We should send him back" gnarls Lairwë, eyeing the elf with the red hair.
Alcanáro approaches, standing in front of the young elf. His long, fiery red hair, flung back and forth by the wind makes him look like another banner himself.
"I wonder who has sent a spoiled little lad like you to Lothlann. This is not Thargelion, Yonyo, where people are singing sweet songs, fashioning fancy things and trading with the Casári. This is Lothlann, and we keep a watchful eye on Ard-Galen. Because our eyes never sleep, Valariandë can flourish. We have witnessed the malice of Moringotto, the accursed, the oppressor. At any times, he may attack Endor, claiming its vales, its mountains...its people. If he does so, we will be the first ones being hit. That is why we must be ready at any time. Being ready can be boring. You may wait a hundred days before you fight your first battle. But even if you find the patience to wait such a long time, you may be slain by the orcs if you do not know how to fight. Let us speak the truth, Yonyo. You are not a fighter. Go home to Thargelion. Go back to your sculpting. Fashion your statues, while we guard your work from here."
The young elf has stood there, motionless, leaning on the short spear. He answers:
"I would like to, Lord. Really, I do. I do not like all this weaponry, I do not want a spear, or a sword. I want my hammer. If necessary, I would fight with a hammer as well."
"We do not fight with hammers here in Lothlann, Yonyo" gnarls Lairwë.
But Alcanáro interrupts. "It is true that there are some in the folk of Nolofinwë who use to fight with hammers. Rog of the folk of Turucáno and his men are said to wield hammers. But listen, Yonyo. When the time of battle comes, and the air is filled with screaming and the scent of blood, the terror of war will be upon you, and if you flee, you would do the right thing. For not a warrior are you, and I doubt you can learn."
"But Lord... I was sent here by force..It never was my wish to do so."
Alcanáro furrows his eyebrows.
"Who told you to come here?"
"I did."
A grim-faced warrior steps forward, suddenly.
His eyes are dark like a night without stars, and black as night is his armour.
The company of elves shows a unambigious reaction.
"Macilwë" says Alcanáro.
"Macilwë..." growls Lairwë, frowning.
Slowly, the elf clad in black armour walks forward, towards the lad.
"It was my command that brought him here, for here his place shall be."
His words are like lashes, and his eyes like glowing embers.
"Finally you have come, Macilvelco."
The lad frowns, and protests:
"My name is Ráolor!"
"Macilvelco is the name I gave you upon the hour of your birth, for you are my son, my only son and heir. I shall share the life of a soldier with you, and you shall obey, for you still have much to learn. Weak you are, and soft, and the sweet winds of Thargelion have made you mushy...and slushy...and baggy..."
Macilwë's eyes study the young elf's aghast face carefully while a dangerous, grim smile lingers on his lips.
"Only the hardiest of all warriors dwell in Lothlann, and this land will expell you for any sign of cowardice. But now you are mine.
Your arm is mine, and I want it to be strong.
Your Hröa is mine, and I want it to be indestructible.
Your Fëa is mine, and I want it to be merciless.
For the merciful lose in this world, and the weak perish."
Alcanáro frowns.
"For Fëanáro's sake, Macilwë. He is still a child! He does not belong here. At least, wait until he has come of age!"
Macilwë turns around, grim like a wounded mountain lion.
"You have no authority here, Alcanáro! We are both soldiers, but this is my son, and I will do what I deem to be right! I know what is right, and I always have done it. Where were you when we pushed into the orcs in the Battle under the Stars? Where were you in Alqualondë, when we slew the Teleri and threw them into the bloody sea?"
Alcanáro's bright eyes darken. He does not reply.
"You were hiding. Hiding like a scared cat. Do not tell me what right and wrong truly is. I followed my Lords. I made sure we left that forsaken realm. I would spill telerin blood again if I had to."
Macilwë turns to the young elf again.
"We are united, my son. United...at last" he says, and he smiles, and there is no mercy in those white, white teeth.
The lad looks into his father's eyes, and he knows: there is no escape.
---
[Translations and notes:
A laite tárienna - praise them to the height! (Quenya)
Endor - Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Mánë (pl.Mánër) - spirit that has gone to the Valar (Quenya)
Mandos - Castle of Custody. The place where the Vala Mandos dwells. The halls to which the soul (Fëa) of an elf goes if his body has been slain (Quenya)
Moringotto - Dark Foe, or Morgoth (Quenya)
Násië - May it be so (Quenya)
Fëa (pl.Fëar) - soul / spirit (Quenya)
Yonyo - boy, lad (Quenya)
Macalaurë - Maglor. Second son of Fëanor (Quenya)
Aged fifty: that is the age when elves normally reach maturity. However, it takes them another fifty years to be considered fully grown-ups
Carnistir - Caranthir. Fifth son of Fëanor (Quenya)
Angamando - Angband (Quenya). The vast fortress of Morgoth, destroyed at the end of the first age in the War of Wrath
Silmarillë - radiance of pure light (Quenya) ...a jewel, one of three, made by Fëanor in the years of the trees
Peng - Bow (Noldorin)
Ohtacárë - war-made / made for war (Quenya)
Macar - Swordsman (Quenya)
Fëanáro - Fëanor (Quenya)
Ecet - short, broad-bladed sword (Quenya)
Andamacil - the famous noldorin longsword (Quenya). It could be wielded either with one or with both hands. It was Fëanor who forged the first swords, during the Years of the Trees in Valinor
Falquan - large sword (Quenya) ...of all the swords the Noldor used to forge, the Falquan was the largest. It had to be wielded two-handed and sometimes reached the length of about six feet
Casar - Dwarf (Quenya)
Ehtë - Spear (Quenya)
Ehtyar - Spearman (Quenya)
Valariandë - Beleriand (Quenya)
Nolofinwë - Fingolfin, high King of the Noldor in Beleriand (Quenya). Died in single combat by the hand of Morgoth himself
Rog - Lord of the House of Hammer's Wrath in Gondolin (Sindarin). His folk was famous for wielding war-hammers. During the battle for Gondolin, they achieved what none had achieved before: they slew several Balrogs before they perished to the last elf
Turucáno - Turgon (Quenya). Son of Fingolfin, Lord of Gondolin and later high King of the Noldor in Beleriand
Battle under the Stars - Dagor-nuin-Giliath. First battle of the Noldor in Beleriand against Morgoth which ended with the victory of the elves
Alqualondë - Swan haven (Quenya). The place in Valinor where the First Kinslaying took part
Teleri - Last-comers. Elves of the third great clan. In this particular place, Macilwë means the Teleri of Alqualondë, a people highly specialized in seafaring
