Themodir

What are thou fit for, O Culufinnel? Wherefore have I commanded you to watch, wherefore have I endeavored to make you fit. Patience does not wait forever and life does not look back. Now go, swiftly, to the Valley, and show these Noldor what speed looks like!

It was now nearly twelve hours since his brother had spat out these words and the snow had eased a little. Culufinnel was feeling miserable. He was soaked from head to foot and Themodir’s weight was heavy on his shoulders, yet nothing mattered; he did not slacken his steps.

Well beyond the end of the Third Age and the passing of most Elves into the West, this ballad was carefully preserved and sung by Elf-friends in all corners of Middle-earth, some say even the Shire. It was carried by the best of the minstrels home to Valinor, where even Nienna, whose tears of compassion constantly flow, is rumoured to believe it is a worthy expression of grief. The authorship of the song is unknown, but some believe it was originally written by Manadhlaer herself, at least in part.

Ballad of Themodir's Fall

Norliriel sang this to Themodir as he was borne from the mountains, grievously wounded by a poisoned goblin blade.

She waits for you, whom you cherish,
Your beloved, fair as the sea-foam,
Crowned with silver, wreathed in light.

No prisoners! No mercy!

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

Manadhlaer sinks into her meditation position with great effort tonight. Anyone spying on her chambers would see her on her knees this night, having changed bodily arrangement in the hopes of changing her seemingly unstoppable visions.