„Once the Fëa has been liberated from the limitations of the world
It aims to return into the music that was
before the world took shape“
Old Quote from East Beleriand
The hammer crashes upon the rock.
Hard is the stone, powerful like the foundations of the earth, and it resists time and force.
The rage in his mind burns like a vast fire, consuming heaven and earth.
Another one taken. Another one slain. Another one lost for Arda, lost for the Eldar.
Another friend that left Ennor.
Despair and wrath is taking him. Without aim he batters the heavy rock.
The warhammer shatters the surface.
The sound of splintering stone reaches the camp...
Silent as trees they stand there, Luthelian the Lithe, Annunghil the Valiant, Faorie the Fair;
struck by the ill news that came from the valley.
Farewell, Themodir, my friend, my brother.
We shall see each other
in Mandos again.
That filth shall pay ten times the price!
The race of Goblins shall be wiped out!
But the orders have not come yet.
He has to wait. Waiting...
the most dreadful torture that was ever invented.
Revenge fills his heart. Revenge fills the world.
Revenge covers Eä, revenge surpasses the confines of being.
O Themodir, captured, tortured, poisoned by Goblins:
we shall avenge your passing with an ocean of blood!
The warhammer strikes the rock.
Sparks are flying.
Aiya, Ormë! Hail, wrath!
Consume me, consume the world!
Fill my heart with hate, fill my mind with power,
give strength to my arm, give endurance to my feet.
Transform me into your weapon,
a wraith of revenge!
Farewell, Themodir, my friend, my brother.
We shall see each other
in Mandos again.
Ráolor lowers the head.
Alas, he understands now.
I understand, Themodir.
I saw you yesterday between the trees, walking upright.
Ráolor you fool!
You did not understand back then.
Your friend was not in Imladris anymore...
The Fëa was not inhabiting the Hröa anymore.
A vision of your friend,
giving you a sign.
Now you understand...
He looks at the rock.
Beauty shall emerge from destruction.
Courage shall be born from despair.
Eternity shall embrace you, my friend.
You shall not be forgotten.
He finds a chisel in his pocket.
He aims carefully.
Do not imprison the anger inside your heart -
Luthelian's words still linger in his mind.
He strikes the rock with measured force.
The chisel cuts through the stone.
Farewell, Themodir, my friend, my brother.
We shall see each other
in Mandos again.
Faorië approaches.
“What are you doing, warrior?”
She frowns. The enemy may hear that sound.
Foes may surround them.
“Let them come.”
Ráolor does not stop. The features of the statue become more clear.
“What is it?”
Annúnghil stands besides Faorië.
Luthelian approaches too.
She understands first...
“Why are you doing this, warrior?”
Faorië gazes at the sculptor.
“Because I loved my brother-at-arms.
He was dear to us all...”
Ráolor steps back, lowering the hammer.
Faorië suddenly realizes...
Annúnghil nods.
A statue for a fallen warrior.
A silence fills the place
as if the spirit of their fallen friend
has changed the world with music,
a music without sounds, without words,
without grief.
Farewell, Themodir, my friend, my brother.
We shall see each other
in Mandos again.
Epilogue:
(Fourth Age of the Sun, year 811. Misty Mountains)
Two wanderers make their way through the falling snow.
“Damned mountains. Never liked them.”
One of the two men coughs.
“How far is it?”
“I am not sure, Arandur.”
Suddenly, the man called Arandur slips and falls over into the snow.
He lifts up his staff, broken in two.
“What happened?”
“There is something hard over here, under the snow.”
“Let us continue. It's just a stone.”
“Wait...
it is no ordinary stone. It is a statue!”
“Are you sure?”
Arandur nods.
“That must be the head. C'mon, help me.”
The two men slowly free the statue from the claws of snow and ice.
“Look, there's even some wood over here. Must have been sort of shrine, many years ago.”
They gaze at the empty eyes of a warrior, noble and upright, a solemn smile upon his face.
The warrior is fair to behold and light dwells upon his forehead.
The two men are silent, a strange reverence has taken them.
“This... is elven craft, my friend!”
“Elven? But haven't they gone long ago?”
“True. Almost all of them left Middle Earth, many years ago. But their arts endured...
Their craft and their skill was legendary. Do you remember the tales of King Elessar?”
“Not really.”
Arandur sighs.
“Never mind.”
“I wonder...”
“Yes?”
“I wonder who this warrior was. I wonder when he lived, what he felt, what he thought...”
Arandur nods silently.
“He must have been brave, noble of mind and kind of heart. Immortal, as all elves were.
Perhaps he was slain in battle, or left Eriador...
He must have been famous. There is always a reason why sculptors create statues.
It is strange, but... I feel as if the sculptor, whoever he was, wanted us to look upon this sculpture.”
“That is obscure thought, Arandur. That sculptor is gone. That warrior is gone. The elves are gone.
Will be same with us. When we die, we die. C'mon, let us continue.”
But Arandur remains for a moment.
He takes off his gloves, putting his hand at the heart of the elven warrior.
Without knowing why, it seems to him as if his mind has been filled with an ancient valour, surpassing everything he knew about power and courage since the days of his childhood.
Something ancient moves deep within his soul, and he begins to understand.
The wind in the Misty Mountains howls.
Ice and snow threaten two wanderers, lost somewhere in the vast wilderness.
But one of them has looked through a window of time and seen a glimpse of the Firstborn, undimmed in the radiance of their glory and bliss.
