The great pack paused at the southern shores of the lake, something urged her to halt and disrobe the remnants of her sanity and humanness. Day and night were indistinguishable anymore, all just one long, grey haze, blurred by anger and pain. There were brief moments of sunlight. A white shadow had been following them for days now, but every time it appeared the whispering began again, reminding her of her loss and her anger at the one responsible. It was his fault, it was all of their fault, the Golug, they were not to be trusted.
She knew that if she skirted the eastern shore, hard on the mountains, she would come upon one of their havens. She could burn it, the whispers told her, she should burn it. Burn it to the ground, burn them all to the ground. Kill all the Golug and destroy every last thing any of them had ever loved; only then would she know peace. Only after she had made them all as miserable as herself would they understand her pain. She would send them all to rot in Mandos’ dungeons.
Striding through the pack, having left the remnants of her possessions in a huge warren, she saw a brief flicker of sunlight, the white shadow. It stood far off and burned bright for a moment before slinking off into the forest. “Hethan” Ulfban thought, “My Hethan shone like that.”
“Until he snuffed her light out,” came the inevitable reply. “He used her, toyed with her heart and threw her away, like garbage.”
Ulfban shook her head, something was not right, where was she?
“He killed her.” Came the whisper, and all was a dark grey wash again.
From that moment she was accompanied by three giant Wargs wherever she went. The brindle, largest of the three, even offered to let her ride him, but she declined. She was the mother of wolves, and she would run with her children.
Late that night, after the moon had set, they moved. Swiftly they ran along the shore, surging like a bore tide through the narrow gap of land between the lake and the sheer cliff face.
She should have seen them, they flickered like candles in the darkness; beautiful, sad flames. Five of her children fell to their arrows before the pack even knew they were there. She had decided to pass by the refuge, her goal wasn’t there. But the death of her children rekindled the smoldering rage in her.
“Burn them” urged the whisper. “Burn them all.”
With a scream she turned aside and led the charge. Her largest children, the great Wargs, threw themselves against the nearest tree slamming into it with their powerful bodies, almost uprooting it while the rest of the pack swarmed about the other trees howling and leaping. But the old forest giants were strong with deep roots and they weren’t so easily turned. By now dozens of her children, her precious children, lie dead or wounded by the stinging flies the Golug loosed from their great bows.
She howled long and loud, more a scream than anything, but there were words in it if one were to listen, “Ungol.”
The pack retreated, dragging their wounded with them and for a moment, just out of bow shot, a tenderness showed through the savage visage of the Mother of Wolves. She pulled the painful darts, salved and bound the wounds with mud made from her own tears. She spoke, almost tenderly, to her children while waiting for the Ungol she knew were near at hand to respond to her summons.
It wasn’t long before they could be heard, smaller ones at first, mere children in their own right. But as the sun began to brighten the eastern skies the chittering of larger, deadlier Ungol began to filter through the trees. Tossing loops of sticky silk they darkened the glade as they came; dozens of giant Ungol chattering to each-other, racing to devour the hated Golug…
