Mists of Thargelion

[First Age of the Sun, year 536, somewhere in Dor Caranthir]

"Mists are the dreams of the Olvar, they are their sorrow, their hope and their thoughts", he remembered.

Years ago, he had heard a minstrel of Thargelion putting this very thought into a song.

Foolish minstrels, he thought, dancing and feasting while the north prepared for a war.

A war that would shatter elvendom in Beleriand.

The hooded elf gazed down at the trees. Mist was crawling up the hills, covering more and more parts of the forest.

The tower was abandoned, even the orcs had only rallied here for a short while.

Beauty, and wisdom, and laughter had vanished. They had suddenly left these lands, like uninvited guests leaving a great feast.

Orcs, and wargs, and a few Easterling tribes had become the native population of eastern Beleriand.

The hooded elf frowned.

Years ago, he had been on a hunt with his kinsmen. A pack of wargs had tracked them down. After the short fight, the members of the hunting company found themselves scattered.

The hooded elf had used this opportunity. He had left his fellow hunters, aiming towards north and east.

He had sworn to avenge his fallen comrades, he had sworn to avenge the thousands of slaughtered women and children, he had sworn to avenge the defiled lands, and to smite down as many orcs and easterlings as possible.

A foolish plan maybe.

But he did not care.

The Noldor of Middle-Earth would not give up so easily.

That is what he wanted the dark Lord in the north to know.

Finally, time had come.

His Lord Macalaurë would most probably deem him dead at some point.

After years of careful and careless fighting, the hooded elf had made a fatal mistake.

He had paid for this mistake with years as a prisoner, facing torture, humiliation, despair and failure.

At some point, he had managed to escape, losing friends he could not protect despite great efforts.

But now was different.

Maybe... it was time to return to his Lord.

One elf had neither the power nor the strength to fight several armies alone.

He turned and gazed over the trees.

There, somewhere, hundreds of miles away, was Amon Ereb.

Leaving this tower behind, a tower full of memories -

The hooded elf took a deep breath.

Return to his kindred?

Return from the dead?

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Translations:

Olvar - the name for all living things with roots in the earth (Quenya)

Dor Caranthir / Thargelion  -  Land of Caranthir / Land beyond the river Gelion (Sindarin)

Macalaurë  -  Amilessë (mother name) of Maglor, second son of Fëanor (Quenya)

Amon Ereb - Lonely hill (Sindarin)  [... could be found in eastern Beleriand. After the battle Nirnaeth Arnoadiad, the sons of Fëanor withdrew to Amon Ereb]