Chapter 36
In the year 468 of the First Age, news rocked Beleriand like thunder: Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanorion, after years of silence, issued a call to all the Free Folk for an alliance. Maedhros, a brave warrior once held captive and tortured by Morgoth, rekindled his long-extinguished hope upon hearing the legendary tale of Beren and Lúthien, who, while mortal, had succeeded in seizing a Silmaril. He realized that Morgoth was not invincible. But if the Free Folk continued to fight independently, they would be crushed and pulverized one by one by Morgoth's mighty dark currents as he gathered strength.
Maedhros then devised a grand and daring counterattack plan. He traveled throughout Beleriand, leveraging his personal prestige, the mighty arms of House Fëanor, and the immense appeal of his oath to the Silmarils to successfully establish the "League of Maedhros." He invited nearly all the free peoples: the Noldor, some tribes of the Sindar, the loyal Edain, some clans of the Dwarves, and even some Easterling tribes that had not yet been completely corrupted by Morgoth or were intimidated by the Alliance's might.
In Nargothrond, Finrod firmly refused the invitation. "Work with the sons of Fëanor? With those who kidnapped Meereen, like Celegorm and Curufin?" Finrod's voice was cold but resolute, his golden eyes burning with anger at his cousin's actions. "I will never allow the warriors of Nargothrond to serve Himring. We will shed our last drop of blood against Morgoth, but only under the banner and command of High King Fingolfin." His stance was clear: they would fight alongside him, but they would never serve under the command of the League of Maedhros.
Meereen understood Finrod's anger and determination. Rather than dissuade him, he chose to follow the army of Nargothrond, answering Fingolfin's call and marching to the northern front. He could not escape this decisive battle that would determine the fate of Middle-earth, yet deep in his heart, he held a glimmer of hope. He wanted to see for himself whether the Fëanorion brothers would be completely consumed by their oath in this final battle, or if there would be a glimmer of change.
In the winter of First Age 472, the skies of Beleriand were covered with ominous clouds, foreshadowing the coming bloodbath. Morgoth, the Dark Lord of the North, had finally bared his long-awaited fangs. The gates of Angband burst open, unleashing a terrifying army of pure evil and destruction, a scale beyond the Free Folk's wildest dreams.
The Orcs' numbers obscured the horizon, a rolling black tide covering the wastes of Anfauglith. Armed with poisoned weapons and crude yet sturdy armor, they roared with a deafening roar as they charged frantically under the whips of their warlords. Packs of enormous wolves and their wolf riders, like black lightning, pierced the Orcish ranks, tearing through any exposed flanks. A dozen or more Balrogs stalked the battlefield, horrific manifestations of the fallen Maiar. Wrapped in flames and smoke, they wielded flaming whips and flaming greatswords, their every blow shaking the earth and bringing the death of scores of Elves and Men. Their roars were like the knells of hell. Most despairing of all was the mighty dragon Glaurung, Morgoth's most powerful creation. Its massive form resembled a rolling hill, covered in impenetrable scales, and from its mouth spewed all-consuming dragonfire. It advanced slowly but inexorably, reducing everything it passed to scorched earth and crushing any defenses that attempted to stop it. Its very existence was the embodiment of fear. Like a poisonous fog, an invisible cloud of fear and despair spread as Morgoth's army advanced, attempting to shatter the fighting spirit of the free peoples.
Faced with this catastrophe, the Alliance of Maedhros and Fingolfin's Western Legion were ready for battle in the designated battlefield, the Wasteland of Anfauglith and its surrounding areas.
Maedhros himself commanded the center, assisted by Maglor's inspiring songs and masterful swordsmanship. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir commanded the flanks. Their army was composed of the elite Noldor of House Fëanor, supplemented by loyal Edain of House Hador, some Dwarven heavy-armored warriors, and uncorrupted Easterling tribes.
High King Fingolfin personally led the center, while his eldest son Fingon commanded the right wing. Finrod's army of Nargothrond served as a crucial support force, deployed behind Fingon's flanks. They served as a reserve, protecting the flanks and establishing temporary sick bays. Glorfindel, acting as an envoy from Gondolin, was also active in the region.
As soon as the battle horn sounded, the most brutal war of attrition began. No probing, no feints, only the most primitive and bloody head-on collision.
While Maedhros's eastern front bore the brunt of Morgoth's main attack, the Edain warriors of the House of Hador were charged with the arduous task of defending the alliance's left flank, facing both the partial pressure from Glaurung's advance and the flanking assaults of the Orcs' main force. Led by their chieftain, Hurin, and his brother Huor, the warriors of the House of Hador were like pines and cypresses rooted in the rock. Their equipment was inferior to that of the Elves, but their courage and loyalty to their oaths were unmatched. Forming a dense wall of shields and a forest of spears, they withstood the black tide with their flesh and blood.
The battle raged for days, the corpses piling up like mountains. During a frenzied charge led by an Orc, led by a Balrog, the Alliance's defenses faltered. Huor, a warrior second only to his brother in valor, roared and led his guards in a counterattack to close the breach and stabilize the enemy's morale. Like a god of war, he slew scores with each swing of his axe. But in the chaos, a poisoned Orc arrow, shot from the shadows, pierced the side of Huor's unhelmed neck with pinpoint accuracy. Huor's massive frame shuddered, the poison instantly paralyzing half his body, and blood gushed from the wound and mouth. Leaning on his axe, he surveyed his kinsmen, who fought bloodily around him, and with a final, unyielding roar, he collapsed to the ground, a heroic death, his body quickly overwhelmed by the swarming Orcs.
Huor's death ignited the final flame of Hador's tragic valor. The elder patriarch, Galdor, had already fallen in the previous battle. Húrin's nephews and numerous collateral relatives witnessed their kin's fall, but instead of retreating, their will for revenge only intensified. They cried out, "For Dor-lómin! For Hador!" They launched counterattacks again and again, filling the gaps in their defenses with their lives. Corpses piled one after another, forming a low wall before the line. The blood of the Edain soaked the gray-white gravel of Anfauglith, staining it a deep brown. Their sacrifice was tragic, but also highly effective. Like a staunch nail, they anchored their positions, significantly slowing Glaurung's flank advance and buying Maedhros precious time to adjust his forces.
As the battle worsened, and the alliance's center and right flank came under immense pressure, Maedhros was forced to order a strategic retreat. The remaining warriors of the House of Hador were ordered to remain behind. Hurin, the greatest of Men, stood atop a low wall piled with the bodies of his own and his enemies, a last beacon. He refused the order to retreat, determined to buy his people a final moment. "Go! Tell Maedhros that Hador has fulfilled his oath!" he shouted to his surviving kin, then turned and charged alone against the onrushing Orcs and the approaching shadow of Glaurung. He fought to the bitter end, his weapon shattering as he strangled several foes with his bare hands, only to be overwhelmed and captured by countless Orcs. As he was dragged towards Angband, his unyielding curse echoed across the battlefield, the most poignant final cry of the Eastern Front in the War of Tears. The best of the House of Hador had been nearly annihilated in this battle.
The battle on the Western Front was equally brutal. Fingolfin and his son, Fingon, led the charge, their silver and blue banners fluttering amid the smoke of battle. Morgoth deployed elite troops on the Western Front, led by brutal Orc warlords and several Balrogs. Their target was Fingon's right flank, intent on severing the Western Front's ties with the Alliance of Maedhros and isolating the High King. Fingon, worthy of the valor of a Noldor prince, charged forward, sword in hand, his silver armor long stained with blood, yet still gleaming with fearlessness. His presence was a powerful boost to morale, and the warriors cried out his name as they fought bravely.
Morgoth clearly considered Fingon a key target. Several Balrogs, backed by the Orcs, descended upon Fingon's command center like messengers from Hell. Whips of flame ripped the air, flaming swords split shields, and Fingon's personal guards fell like straw. Despite his formidable martial prowess, Fingon faced a dangerous situation surrounded by so many Balrogs. His armor warped from the flames, his arms scorched to the bone by the whips, and his mount, seized by the Balrog's roar, fell to the ground.
Just as Fingon was about to be devoured by the Balrog's mighty sword, the resounding blast of the Horns of Nargothrond pierced the din of the battlefield. Finrod, observing the battle from the reserves, keenly sensed the danger on Fingon's front. Without hesitation, he personally led Nargothrond's finest heavy cavalry and spearmen. Like silver blades, they pierced the Orcs besieging Fingon from the flank and rear.
At the forefront was Finrod's valiant general, Gymir. His cavalry, high in spirit, tore through the enemy lines like a sharp knife. Even more heartening was the sight of a golden figure charging from the flank like a meteor—it was none other than Glorfindel! He wasn't a member of the Nargothrond army, but he had clearly been following the battle closely. He rode a white horse, brandishing his longsword, aiming directly at the Balrogs besieging Fingon. His swordplay was exquisite, imbued with the power of light, and he even managed to temporarily drive back one of the Balrogs, giving Fingon a moment to breathe.
The arrival of fresh troops from Nargothrond turned the tide of the battle. Gámir's cavalry scattered the Orcs, while Glorfindel entangled the Balrog. The infantry phalanx quickly secured the defensive line, while Finrod himself, disregarding danger, rode to Fingon's side. Together with Glorfindel, he repelled the last Balrog attempting a fatal blow. Fingon, gravely wounded, was recaptured by his guards at the risk of his life and swiftly transported to the wounded camps in Meereen. The timely support from Nargothrond not only saved Fingon's life but also stabilized the western right flank, preventing the disaster of being divided and surrounded.
Meereen took no direct part in the frontline. His battle took place behind the battle lines, in a makeshift, bloody camp for the wounded. Here, wailing filled the air, broken limbs and bodies lay everywhere, and the stench of death was thick and unbearable. Meereen's figure, a tireless ghost, moved among the wounded. His white medical robe had long since been stained crimson with blood. Kneeling in the mud and blood, his hands stained with sticky blood and fragments of viscera, he busied himself with rapidly staunching bleeding, cleaning wounds, setting broken bones, and identifying and treating wounds inflicted by Orc-like poison arrows. But even more astonishing was the life-giving power he possessed. When he concentrated his mind and placed his hands over the gushing wounds of the seriously wounded, the wounds would shrink and scab over with visible speed; the dark complexion of the poisoned would return to a hint of color; the weak pulses of the dying warriors would strengthen. This power is not omnipotent, it cannot bring the dead back to life or heal fatal injuries, but it greatly increases the survival rate of seriously injured people and gives them a glimmer of hope.
When news of the bloody battle of the House of Hador on the eastern front reached Meereen, his heart clenched. He had lived alongside these brave Edain in Dor-lómin. When the tragic news of Huor's death reached the wounded camp, Meereen was kneeling on the ground, stitching up the wound of an Elf warrior stabbed in the abdomen. His movements faltered, and he looked up at the eastern sky, shrouded in smoke and death, his eyes filled with grief, anger, and the pain of helplessness. He wanted to rush forward, perhaps saving Huor, but the life of the Elf warrior before him was also in danger, and he could not leave. He could only grit his teeth, channeling his grief and anger into strength, completing the stitches more quickly, and then rushing to the next wounded.
He didn't completely retreat to the rear. When the battle lines stabilized, he would venture to the edge of the fighting zone with a small escort, searching for any wounded still breathing. He once dragged a human soldier with a severed thigh back from the whistling of Orc arrows; he once shielded an unconscious elven archer with his body, dodging a flying boulder. His fearlessness and cherishment of life earned him the respect of all warriors, and his name spread from mouth to mouth among the wounded, becoming a ray of hope on a hopeless battlefield.
On the central front, Sauron's own army engaged the elite of Fëanor, led by the brothers Maedhros and Maglor, in a fierce, stalemated stalemate. Both sides inflicted a staggering toll, and bodies piled high. The valor of the sons of Fëanor and the inspiring war songs of Maglor briefly tipped the scales of victory in favor of the Alliance. Maedhros ignited the flames of vengeance, while Maglor's harp heaved like a spring that soothed wounds and a horn that ignited wrath.
Seeing that a frontal attack would not be enough to win quickly, Sauron, the cunning and corrupt Maia, resorted to his most proficient weapons - lies and psychological warfare.
His massive, twisted shadowy form, like a nightmare, suddenly appeared above the battlefield, oblivious to the deafening bloodshed around him. His voice, filled with magic and malevolence, struck with the precision of a poisoned icicle, piercing the soul of Maglor, who was strumming his harp and slashing with his sword in the center of the battlefield. "Maglor! Singer of Fëanor! Your strings pluck destiny, but they cannot dispel the mist that clouded your eyes! You revel in the momentary peace brought by humans, but do you know that beneath that peace lies the deepest betrayal of your family?"
Maglor's harp trembled, and an Orc leaped upon him, whom he beheaded with a backhand blow. He snarled in reply, his voice hoarse with battle and rage: "Sauron, thou father of lies! Hold thy venom, for thy doom is at hand, and Angband shall fall."
"Doom? Hahaha!" Sauron's voice was filled with mocking laughter, like the shriek of an owl. "Overthrow? Before your 'antidote' completely deceives you? Let me awaken you, miserable sleeper. Tell me, do you know what became of the Silmaril that Beren and Lúthien exchanged their lives for, the star that should have belonged to your House of Fëanor?"
Maglor's heart was filled with alarm, but he didn't dare to stop fighting. "Where it is, we will retrieve it by our own hands. It is not your place to comment."
"Retrieve? Such naive and arrogant dreams." Sauron's voice rose suddenly, filled with malicious pleasure. "Let me reveal the cruel truth. That Silmaril, along with the other two lost stars—yes, you heard correctly, the three Silmarils—is now in Meereen, your 'little darling' whom you cherish, whose songs seek to enchant, whose soul longs to comfort. He hid them for decades! He watched you wail, twisted, and maddened in the flames of your oath, and he did nothing. He never intended to give them to you. He is the greatest obstacle to your fulfillment of your oath and the lifting of your curse. He deceived you, Maglor! He betrayed you all."
It was as if a bomb, a mixture of lies, fragments of truth, and curses, had exploded deep within Maglor's soul. Maglor's world collapsed instantly, his sword swings frozen in place, as if struck by an invisible hammer. Beside him, the harp that had accompanied him for countless years, its strings unable to withstand the unconscious force of its owner's convulsions, snapping with a clang.
"The Silmarils were hidden in Meereen? Three? For decades...? And they watched us... suffer...?"
The impact of this information far surpassed any sword on the battlefield. It instantly shattered the dam of reason that Maglor had forcibly maintained through battle. The oath and curse, temporarily suppressed by the presence of Meereen, erupted like a volcano, ignited and detonated by Sauron's words! The searing pain, the fury of being deceived, the heartbreaking pain of being betrayed, and the instinctive desire for the jewel, infinitely magnified by the oath, instantly overwhelmed Maglor like a raging wave.
His eyes were crimson with shock, pain, and insane rage. He jerked his head upward, his crimson gaze piercing the chaotic battlefield, fixed intently on the distant western front—the direction of the Nargothrond army. There lay the human he instinctively longed to be close to, whose songs had once tried to confuse him, whose comfort his soul secretly longed for. The one he had thought could bring a moment of redemption was actually the one who held the source of their family's curse, the greatest obstacle to their liberation?!
At that fateful moment, as Maglor's mind was shaken and he lost consciousness, Sauron let out a triumphant, hissing laugh like a venomous snake. His massive shadowy form instantly disintegrated, transforming into a thick, sticky black smoke that exuded a pungent sulfurous stench. Taking advantage of the brief confusion caused by Maglor's abnormality, he quickly fled the central battlefield like a ghost and disappeared into the northern sky.
On the battlefield, Maglor stood alone, a stone statue amidst a sea of blood and corpses. He clutched his broken harp, its strings trembling feebly in the wind. His chest heaved violently, his bloodshot eyes swirling with disbelief, the pain of utter betrayal, and a raging, all-consuming rage, ignited by the flames of his oath.
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