In the year 3430 of the Second Age, Men and Elves formed the Last Alliance, and in 3434, at Dagorlad, the Battle Plain, they shattered the dark host of Sauron.
Thereafter all believed that the race of the demon-wolves had been utterly wiped out.
The Istari, the Wizards, with Gandalf at their head, had even ventured deep into the southern Plateau of Gorgoroth to search, roamed the great wilderness of Rhovanion in the middle lands, and scoured the far northern region of Forodwaith, yet nowhere did they ever again glimpse a demon-wolf.
But now, to their dread, the northern Elves once more beheld the terrible form of the Demon-wolf King.
The Elves did not fail to resist.
Yet the awful might of the great wolf Fenrir was overwhelming.
Their blades could wound the Demon-wolf King but dealt no mortal blow, and when he simply charged, his vast bulk crashed into them like a hill; the Elves could not stand against him.
“Today I shall return to the halls of Mandos.” As he watched the dreadful Fenrir madly devouring and slaying Elves upon the wall, Aminas felt his fate with a clarity he had never known.
He saw his kin and friends of old singing in a warm and splendid hall, smiling, their arms outstretched to welcome him.
Aminas knew that this was the palace of Námo, the Master of Souls, who is called Mandos.
When the bodies of Elves perish, their souls journey to the halls of Mandos, there to be reunited, to sing in joy without care, until the coming of the End.
So he drew his sword, and in his eyes blazed a light most pure and most holy.
It was the light of the Two Trees of the Blessed Realm in the West, sacred, dazzling, and glorious beyond measure, a light unseen in mortal lands for over ten thousand years.
Ever since Morgoth, the Dark Enemy, laid low the Two Trees, none in the mortal world had beheld such beauty and holiness.
It was whispered that only a handful of Elves who in their hearts still yearned for the ancient days, when they bathed carefree in the holy radiance of the Two Trees, the fairest creations of the Valar, still bore that beauty within their eyes.
Yet through all the Ages such a thing had been rare, and perhaps had never truly happened.
Now Aminas was a Noldorin Elf who had once followed Finwë, first High King of the Noldor, into the West, and beheld with his own eyes the sacred, indescribable beauty of the Two Trees.
Later he had returned to Middle-earth with Fëanor, second High King and maker of the Silmarils.
And now in Aminas’s eyes that same holy, beautiful, and radiant glory of the Two Trees blazed forth once more.
The Elves were astonished, gazing at him in disbelief, for in their eyes Aminas now shone bright as a star.
“Monster!
This is no place for you to wreak your havoc!
Begone, spawn of Draugluin!
You are not welcome here!
The northern Elves have never, and will never, bow to evil!” The great wolf Fenrir recoiled, terrified by the light in Aminas’s eyes, for the holy light of the Two Trees was among the things most feared by all creatures of darkness.
He had not foreseen that in this ever more fallen mortal world an Elf could still bear such beautiful, sacred radiance.
The Demon-wolf King snarled low, a flame of fierce rage kindling in his cold, evil eyes, and he spoke aloud.
“Ah, what a blinding light!
Accursed Elf, you hurt my eyes!
No, how can this be?
How can the Elves of this age still wield such power… Hateful light, vexatious light!
Elf, you have angered me utterly!
I shall extinguish this irksome, loathsome radiance forever.
I will cast your carcass into the dark depths of the sea, or plunge it into a chasm of molten fire!
Ah, Elf, wretched Elf, you should not have defied Fenrir, the Demon-wolf King!
Are you prepared to die?” So saying, the great wolf crouched low, growling, and bared his razor-sharp fangs.
Aminas was not cowed.
The brave Noldorin Elf lifted his sword high, stepped forward boldly, and declared, “Your threats do not frighten me!
Wicked Demon-wolf King, I am ready to die to defend our home!
Come, Fenrir!
This day I shall fight you to the death.
When my blade pierces your throat, the approving eyes of the Valar shall look upon me.
And if your fangs pierce my flesh, then I shall go gladly to the halls of Mandos.” He strode forward and thrust his sword swiftly at Fenrir’s throat.
The great wolf snarled in terror and would have retreated, but the Orc Bolg beneath the wall maliciously blew a bone flute.
Fenrir howled in agony, a dreadful crimson light blazing in his eyes.
He could not resist the power of the master behind that flute.
It was the shackle laid upon all his servants.
Fenrir was enraged that this vile, petty great Orc of Gundabad dared to use the power of his master, darker than darkness itself, to ensnare him.
In his torment the great wolf did not retreat but lunged forward, opening his terrible, bloody maw and snapping at Aminas’s arm.
Aminas had not expected the Demon-wolf King to be so reckless; he cried out in pain as Fenrir’s jaws bit off his sword-arm at the shoulder.
Yet Fenrir fared little better, for before the arm was severed, Aminas’s blade had driven deep into the wolf’s foul upper jaw.
And so both Aminas and Fenrir collapsed in agony.
Fenrir’s fangs were not only sharp but venomous, and soon Aminas fell into a deep, deathlike swoon.
As for Fenrir, Aminas’s sword was imbued with the sacred power of the Two Trees.
When the keen blade pierced the wolf’s upper jaw, a bright white flame kindled upon it, raging through Fenrir’s flesh and searing his very soul.
Fenrir howled in torment, thrashing upon the broad wall until at last he tumbled over the battlement.
Both the Elves and Bolg beyond the walls were stunned, unable to believe that so mighty a being could fall so.
The cunning Orc hesitated, then his face hardened, and he blew his bone flute once more.
The wolves snarled and again surged toward Mithlond, the Grey Havens.
At that moment the great wolf Fenrir was not yet wholly dead.
Aminas’s sword had wounded him grievously, but the dark power within him was not to be dismissed.
He continued to wail, black fumes of ill omen pouring from his monstrous body, wrestling against the silver flames that consumed him, each force struggling to overcome the other.
This was a torment beyond measure.
That night, the agonized howls of the Demon-wolf King Fenrir echoed far across the land, becoming a tale of terror whispered among the peoples of the North.
On the main battlefield, the Orcs heard the Demon-wolf King’s cries and a great unease seized them.
Azog paced restlessly, not knowing what had happened.
The Demon-wolf King had been one of his greatest assets in this assault.
He had thought that with Fenrir’s aid, the Elves’ rear defenses would crumple like paper.
Yet with those anguished howls, it was clear to all that something dire had befallen the Orcs on the southern front.
The thought that his master’s plan might fail made the pale, cunning Orc’s scarred, hideous face shift with uncertainty.
He looked toward a place of deep darkness behind the army, where certain creatures from the far north whispered ceaselessly, their sibilant murmurs drifting demonically on the north wind to Azog’s ears.
Meanwhile, Eliveth was amazed that Aminas bore such brilliant light of the Two Trees, and appalled that even such a wound had not slain the Demon-wolf King.
So she made a choice that all who later learned of this tale would deem supremely valiant.
Eliveth vaulted lightly from the ten-meter-high wall and dashed toward the fallen Demon-wolf King.
Fenrir, in his agony, noticed her approach.
Enraged, he turned and struck at her with his huge paw.
Eliveth coolly pressed one hand against the blow, using Fenrir’s own force to perform an incredible maneuver: with breathtaking agility she rolled, landing atop the great paw.
Then she kicked off, sprang into the air, and drove her sword into the Demon-wolf King’s cold, vast eye, which blazed with wicked light.
A great cry of agony burst from Fenrir’s jaws.
The she-elf’s blade sank to the hilt in the eye, reaching deep into the wolf’s skull.
In his torment, Fenrir lashed out with his other forepaw, swatting the elf-maid from the air.
Then he lay still.
“Eliveth.” Fate struck so suddenly.
Before the Dragonborn could grasp what to do, the great wolf had already been wounded by brave Aminas and toppled in agony from the wall.
Then the elf-maid, with valiant audacity, rubbed salt into the wound, successfully blinding one eye of the dread wolf, scion of the ancient bloodline of the werewolf progenitor.
And it seemed the wound was grievous indeed.
Seeing the elf-maid hurled aside by the monster’s dying lunge, her fate unknown, the Dragonborn paid no heed to the tide of wolves surging back.
Imitating her, he leaped from the ten-meter wall and landed beside her prone form.
He froze.
From her chest to her belly, deep claw-gashes had rent her fine armor, revealing hideous wounds from which blood streamed freely.
Dropping his silver-white warhammer, wrought by Elven master smiths, the dark-haired Dragonborn knelt, lifted the fallen elf-maid, and gently rested her fair head upon his knee.
The elf-maid opened her eyes and gave a smile of heartbreaking beauty.
“Mestors, it is sad that I shall hear your singing no more.
But that you are the last one I see before I go to the halls of Mandos…
that is not a poor ending.” With that, the starlight of Varda faded from her eyes, and those once dazzling eyes of Eliveth closed forever.
The Dragonborn was helpless, wishing to speak but finding no words.
Grief overwhelmed his heart.
Under the dim starlight, a towering, mighty giant knelt before the white walls, holding a tall elf-maid with flowing dark hair, his head bowed and refusing to rise.
Not far away, a massive wolf like a small hill lay motionless, silver-white flames wreathing its body.
“Ocrianim!” an Elf cried urgently.
In the distance, countless hideous wolves with glowing green eyes and slavering jaws were again closing in on the Grey Havens.
At last, the kneeling giant stirred.
He laid the elf-maid gently down, gave her one last look, and rose, lifting his warhammer.
A mighty, commanding Shout, a dragon’s roar of terrible fury, erupted from the Dragonborn, its dread power sweeping indiscriminately over both the eastern and southern battlefields.
The northern Elves and Orcs alike were all stunned by this awful force.
For a strange moment, both sides locked in bloody combat froze in an eerie stillness.
Azog looked south in shock and rage, his limbs trembling uncontrollably; his soul quaked, and an urge to flee seized him.
Círdan turned his head gravely toward the Dragonborn.
Under the stars, the silver-white giant hefted his warhammer and charged alone into the grey tide of wolves, which now milled in terror and confusion.
A thunderous crash.
The warhammer, whistling with wind and thunder, smashed down onto the head of a huge wolf with livid jowls and long fangs, and its pointed skull burst open like a melon.
Heedless of the splattered brains and gore, the Dragonborn’s golden, slit-pupiled dragon eyes blazed with raging fury.
The elf-maid’s final, sorrowful beauty replayed over and over in his mind; the dark-haired Dragonborn, facing war’s cruelty for the first time, could not accept it.
He knew not what to do.
In his wrath he stormed like a whirlwind into the panicked pack, swinging his hammer wildly, slaughtering every wolf still dazed by his awesome Shout.
Yet in his mind he saw the two of them sitting on the shore on the eve of battle, silently feeling the sea breeze and gazing at the stars.
“Ah!” The Dragonborn howled in mad fury, his blood seeming to boil, his breath so scorching it could sear mortal flesh.
None knew whence this fiery battle-frenzy came.
Like a berserker he swung his great hammer madly, pounding the hideous wolves into bloody pulp.
Foul blood and chunks of flesh splattered over him.
That night, the image of the wrathful Dragonborn facing the wolf-horde alone was etched into the hearts of many Elves, and has been passed down in song and in a fourteen-stanza poem.
All were deeply moved by the Dragonborn’s valor, and mourned the sacrifice of Eliveth and Aminas.
Just then.
Thwip.
A black-feathered arrow struck the Dragonborn full in the face.
He halted abruptly in the midst of his slaughter.
In the distance, the cunning Orc laughed coldly, his black bowstring still quivering.
Bolg had recovered from his soul-shaking terror faster than the wolves.
At first the Dragonborn’s Shout had startled him too, but when he saw this towering, mighty pointy-ear (the Orc thought the Dragonborn an Elf), as huge as the Desecrator himself, charging alone into the wolves, he sneered.
Treacherously he readied the Orcish longbow from his back, hands still trembling, and took aim at the towering Dragonborn wreaking havoc.
As expected, the Dragonborn, blinded by rage, did not notice his stealthy move.
Bolg loosed the string, and the black arrow from Mordor found its mark “accurately” on the Dragonborn’s face.
The Elves, still stunned by the Dragonborn’s magical roar, now came to their senses.
They leaped lightly down from the walls; a few remained near the gate to recover the fallen elf-maid’s body, while the greater part drew their swords and charged, filled with hatred for the foe and noble respect for their comrade.
From on high, a small wedge of gold slammed into the far larger grey mass, and a storm of blood and flesh erupted.
The Elves drove swiftly into the wolf-pack’s formation, forcefully driving the numerous wolves back step by step.
At last, the wolves, their hearts still seized by soul-deep dread, lost their nerve.
Ignoring the bone flute’s urgings, they howled and turned tail to flee.
Then came the moment no one expected.
The Dragonborn, whom all thought had been “slain” by the treacherous Orc Bolg, suddenly raised his heavy helm, revealing a face that still held a trace of youth.
Bolg had aimed too “well”: the Mordor black arrow had struck precisely the vertical bar of the Y-shaped visor of the Elven heavy helm.
“Yol…” The enraged Dragonborn opened his mouth, and a terrible, searing breath became dragonfire, sweeping across the entire battlefield.
—— Please leave some comments and reviews!