Anglachelm

It ends like this. Apparently.

The pain is unbearable. It burns as if Nirhen has spent the days swallowing hot coals, and fills her head and throat as if now she is choking on the smoke they let off as they eat away at her insides. She had never really considered what the ending of this might be, and now, watching them flutter like frantic birds around their golden-haired Lord, it is worse than anything they have done so far.

It may only be wishful thinking on my part, but I do not believe lord Anglachelm will suddenly drop dead if we are careful of his broken ribs and the perforation wounds he suffers from. 

I think so because he woke up a few times today, had the strength to eat and drink on his own and showed a stubbornness which, I am beginning to believe, is to be found only in this House. Seriously !

Our Lord Anglachelm was a mighty lord of the Hidden City of Gondolin of the Seven Fountains, that known as the Stone House, the Secret Place, the beautiful Flower of Tumladen, that Lily-of-the-Valley of the Ancient Realm of Beleriand, and though it is no more, he led a remnant of his people away, before its utter destruction, and helped found the Ancient House of Vanimar.

I am taking advantage of the fact that everyone is sleeping or at least out of sight and lord Anglachelm seems stable to put on paper the events of the day.

And what a day...

After leaving most of our things in that abandoned place close to the fortress, we entered Dol Guldur (I got writing supply from an elf at the camp we are in now). Did I mention it was a foolish, suicidal attempt ? Well, for all the dangers we were in, we are all still alive, surprisingly.

We reached Lórien, and found great reason to praise the Gracious Lady, who had watched over and guided us through her land, unto the present hour, and had food, beds, and everything else, neat and clean. In the Wood, I found a lively and generous people, many of whom were hungering and thirsting for news outside their little land. I obliged them with tales of our ventures south, and wandered round the place, in all the high and low places, talking to whomever I could find.

"There must be another set of bellows, surely? Search the whole city if you have to!" Estarfin snarled the last command at the wide-eyed assistant, pointing out of the door of the crafting hall as he did so. Nodding briefly, the brown-haired Elf almost fled from the forge, keen to distance himself from such anger. Left alone finally, and dressed only in his old boots, filthy trousers and undershirt, Estarfin turned back to the forge with a determined expression. He would repair the shield; he must.

Believing that Lord Anglachelm was taken north towards the Southern Greenwood, we made shift as well as we could to reach the Great River through the bluffs of the Horse-Men, and after a day of hard travel, we arrived at a hillside overlooking a camp. It was full of swarthy Easterlings, and by a gilt-fringed tent stood a tall and robust Man, with dark, expressive eyes, and a sneering countenance.

Numerous beyond counting, the stars reflected upon the surface of the lake could have been a second sky, so clear was the image. Watching them in silence brought a sense of peace to Estarfin such as he had not felt for a long time. His breathing was slow, his coarse hair shifting slightly in the cool breeze that rippled across the surface of the water. As he stared at the black mirror bathed in starlight, memories came to the forefront of his mind of Lake Helevorn in the green lands of Thargelion and the joys of an all-too-brief childhood spent upon the shore.

(reposted as I accidentally posted this in the Poetry Category - P.)