In the span of seven short years, everything changes for the Elves of Balar. Much of what transpires is written elsewhere, but the great events of the end of the First Age are observed and recorded by the dutiful chroniclers of Balar.
After the Third Kinslaying and the fall of the Havens, the remnant of the Elves of Beleriand flee to the safety of the island. Of their lords, only Gil-galad and Círdan remain; for Eärendil was at sea when the Havens fell. Refugees of the Green-elves also arrive at Balar, bringing tidings from the mainland. Well-nigh all Beleriand is overrun by the forces of the Enemy, and the Iron Crown of the North reigns supreme.
It is in that hour, unlooked for and unforeseen, that a mighty armada appears on the western shore. The Host of the Valar has arrived, bringing tidings of hope and vast strength of arms. For the Noldor, there are many reunions with their long-sundered kin out of the West; and the splendor of the host of the Vanyar fills all with wonder. But all are struck with dread and awe at the Valar themselves, arrayed in forms of power and might for a great war to come.
And come it does. From the first battle at the ruins of Eglarest, across Arvernien and to the shoulders of Sirion the battles rage for years, shaking the very ground. Swift ships dash back and forth between Balar and the mainland, bearing wounded and tidings of the campaign. And the House of Anorwë rises to the calls for aid. Carcírion now commands a squadron of ships, ferrying passengers and stores across the sea. Gilalaith opens her house to the wounded, filling almost every room with the sick and injured; for the healers among the Elves cannot manage the sheer numbers. Seregrían and Hartagil serve Gilalaith as aid and helpers, handling the many chores needed to care for the injured.
Upon one evening, the family gathers for a shared meal as Carcírion is home once more. For a time, the four eat in silence, when Gilalaith makes an effort to lighten the mood.
“There have been many little joys in these times, have you seen?” she says. “With the coming of the Host out of the West, I have seen many reunions of friends.”
“Some right here in this house,” Hartagil agrees. “Just today, I watched two brothers reunite: one came to these shores while the other remained behind – and to hear them laugh and weep made all the years melt away for them.”
“Old friends are met, and new ones made,” Carcírion says. “On my last voyage, I beheld a company of soldiers join an Elven-host headed north – a company of Men! Arrayed in the armor of the Elves, they were – and bore it proudly and with valor - “
“Mortals, playing at being Elves,” Seregrían mutters.
“And why not, sister?” Hartagil says, “They have as much cause to fight as we do – “
Seregrían slams her hands on the table. “On whose side! Mortals are marching under the Enemy’s banners, in far greater numbers than these precious ‘Elf-friends’, and that is their true cause! The same ones that fought under the banners of the Kinslayers – “
“Silence!” Gilalaith nearly shouts. “You know I forbade that word in my hearing, daughter, and I expect my wishes to be obeyed!” Seregrían clenches her jaw, and falls silent, but glowering. Hartagil finds her plate suddenly fascinating, staying out of the exchange.
“I too, have heard such news,” Carcírion says, “that hosts of Mortals are fighting against us. But not all of them, for the remnant of the Edain stand with us. Their hearts are true; and you would see this is so, if you ever have the fortune to meet them.”
“I hardly count Mortals among my desired meetings,” Seregrían growls, “now or in future. If they are destined to die, by sword or by time, then let them – the stars will shine the brighter for it!”
It was now Gilalaith who slams the table with a fist. “I will endure no more of your hate! Be silent or go to your chamber!” And with a glare, Seregrían stands and leaves the room, a far-off slam of a door her reply. Hartagil looks at her foster parents.
“Leave me to speak with her, after she cools down,” she says. “She has been boiling like this in recent days and talking to me seems to help. Please?” Carcírion and Gilalaith nod, and the three continue eating.
The War of Wrath, as it is being called, drags on for decades. The tide of war ebbs and flows, and news comes to Balar not only from ships and messengers, but in the earth itself. Tremors can be felt at whiles, and harsh flashes of light can be seen in the night skies by the farsighted. It comes on a time where for weeks no news comes, and even Carcírion has not returned with tidings.
On one evening, Hartagil cannot find Seregrían, and Gilalaith bids her search for her. She looks in all the places the sisters are wont to haunt, to no avail. After looking through the night and into the hours before dawn, Hartagil finds Seregrían standing alone atop a promontory looking across the sea to the north; the girls would stand there, keeping lookout for their father’s sails.
“Seregrían?” Hartagil calls as she approaches. “What are you doing here, we were worried about you. What is it?” Seregrian speaks without looking, here eyes fixed on the northern skies.
“Can’t you feel it?” she replies. “The air is changed, charged with something. The sky to the north is utterly black with no starlight, but see, there are flashes like lightning in a storm, only greater – and more terrible. Something dreadful is happening.” Then, just before the sun breaks over the horizon, there is one tremendous flash in the north, followed by a tremor greater than any they had felt before. And as the sun rose, both girls feel such a sudden flood of joy in their hearts that they begin to sing; and from the houses below can be heard singing also.
The news comes from the mainland of the great victory of the West over the North; Thangorodrim is broken, and the Iron Crown is no more, and the war has been won. And along with the word of victory comes the dreadful news of how the lands have been broken and blasted, mountains laid low and cataracts drown the land – and the Elves must now prepare themselves for what is to come.
For the shape of the world has changed – and for Seregrían and Hartagil, so much will not be the same.
Next Chapter: A Hidden Labor of Hate
