4. A Flickering Ember
a) Sorontar is Tolkien's translation for Thorondor
b) Sangororimbë is my translation for Thangorodrim
Nár Tinwen : Part IV : A Flickering Ember
'Thus I take you mine.'
'It burns! Take the stone away!' Tinwen pulled the chained Morglin-Stone as far off her as it reached. This was not far enough.
'How can anything burn you, my love? You are made of fire.'
'It is so cold, it was never this cold before! Please take it away now!'
'I am sorry, my little one, but I cannot obey your request. The lock is impossible to open. You see, I mean to keep you for ever.' With these words, Sauron captured her with one arm and fastened a length of chain into the treacherous necklace. Then he chained her to the wall of the chamber of Coimirer.
'These chains are too strong for you to break, weak one, and no one will come here to break them for you, for I will seal the chamber and strenghten the walls with enchantments. Besides, you yourself have told me that none save Melkor knows where you went from Aman. And my Lord will be pleased to find you safely kept here when he returns.'
'If he returns', Tinwen managed to whisper.
'And how does it help you if he does not? You shall see I can be cruel too. In fact, I think you shall see it very soon... my bride...'
Fire burns. Sometimes it burns you. Sometimes it burns down into ashes. No fire can burn for long in a sealed space. It requires air. Without air fire is not fire. But it is still there. Hot. Waiting.
Melkor did return. He gathered his creatures and started fortifying Angamando, raising the Sangororimbë high over it. Sauron welcomed his Master and presented him two gifts. One was a small sword of Aulë's craft, which Melkor melted, using the iron to fasten the Jewels of Fëanor into his crown. The other was a prisoner.
Tinwen heard the noises of change, but she could not fathom what they meant. Steps hurried to and fro. Tools crafted stone. Heavy things were carried from one place to another. Water splashed. Somewhere, fires rushed to flame. The earth itself was changing and moving, but none of the changes had reached the chamber of Coimirer, now dark and dusty, grave-like.
Until the day Tinwen heard the seals being opened. Someone walked in, but brought no light.
'Who are you?'
'You may call me your lord', said the visitor. Then he lifted a black covering from his face.
Tinwen beheld the Silmarils, and for a fleeting moment her heart was aflame with hope and longing.
Then she saw the face under the iron-crown.
Arien was on one of her first journeys across the heavens. Suddenly she started crying. For no reason, she thought at first. Then some instinct told her that her smallest sister was being hurt beyond healing.
A fire of gold had burned down into ashes and the cold ashes had been walked on by filthy feet. Tinwen did not cry. Her entire body was in pain, every limp was like crippled. She felt old and despaired. Her face was dark and lined, her hair hanged down in dirty ash-white tangles. She was not sure if she was alive at all.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.