Chapter 41
The silence of the Valar's circled hill was broken, as Earendil's plea and the light of the Silmaril echoed within the sacred space. Manwë's gaze pierced the void, looking upon Angband, the roiling, foul world of Middle-earth, a vast boil in the north. He saw the cries of the enslaved, the struggle of the free people in the shadows, and the insatiable, evil ambition of Morgoth. The wills of the Valar communicated in silence, and finally, Manwë's voice, clear as the sky after a storm, spoke with judgment: "The sins of Morgoth Boglir have filled Arda. He has stolen light, twisted creation, and spread suffering and death. His deeds are too numerous to list. Earendil comes bearing light, crying out in blood on behalf of the creatures of Middle-earth, his prayer is just and urgent. The Valar will answer. Evil must end, and light must return!"
Manwë's judgment was a clarion call, awakening dormant powers. Valinor had never witnessed a mobilization for war on such a scale. Countless Maiar answered the call, manifesting mighty forms: warriors clad in flaming armor, riders who steed storms, giants who moved mountains... Their combined power formed a torrent powerful enough to shake the world.
The Vanyar, the Elves who had never left Aman, who had bathed longest in the light of the Two Trees, and who were closest to the Valar, now laid aside their harps and scrolls, donning armor gleaming with the light of the stars and taking up sharp spears and sturdy shields. Their eyes were clear and resolute as they fought to uphold the bright order of Arda. The Noldor, those who had chosen to remain in Aman during the rebellion of the sons of Fëanor, who had never participated in the Kinslaying, also prepared for battle. Their hearts burned with grief for the suffering of their kin in the East and a thirst for vengeance. Their craftsmanship now honed in forging matchless weapons and sturdy armor. Silver and blue banners emblazoned with the emblems of the Noldor, symbolized the rescue of their kin in Middle-earth.
Although the Teleri, still scarred by the tragedy of their kinsmen's slaughter at Swanhaven, refused to participate directly in the war on land, they did not remain detached. Elwing personally pleaded with Olwë, King of the Teleri. She described the darkness of Middle-earth, the suffering of Elves and Men, and the hardships and hopes of Earendil's voyage. Olwë was moved by her sincerity and the desperate vision she portrayed. Ultimately, the Teleri demonstrated their unparalleled naval might. Countless ships, wrought of white wood, graceful as swans and immeasurably strong, assembled at the harbor of Alqualondi. The most experienced Teleri sailors boarded the warships, their mission: to carry the armies of the Valar across the vast Belegaer and deliver them safely to the battlefields of Middle-earth. This was a way for the Teleri to transcend the grief of their lost kin and indirectly redeem the suffering of the people of Middle-earth.
Never before had the coastline of Aman witnessed such a magnificent military presence. The might of the Maiar, the holy radiance of the Vanyar, the vengeful fire of the Noldor, the mighty white sails of the Teleri fleet… all converged into an invincible force, like a sword about to be unsheathed, its tip pointed directly at Morgoth in the north of Middle-earth.
At the same moment when the army of the Valar was making intensive preparations for battle in Aman, Meereen, far away in Nargothrond in Middle-earth, was once again seized by a terrible dream.
He dreamed of the earth roaring and crumbling, the sea roaring like a raging beast, pouring into every corner of Beleriand. Mighty mountains collapsed with a roar, turning to dust; familiar forests were swallowed by the mighty waves, and the magnificent halls of Nargothrond groaned in the flood and sank into the abyss; countless creatures were swept away by the merciless waves with cries of despair... All of Beleriand, this land of countless laughter and tears, glory and sacrifice, was crumbling and sinking to the cold sea. He could even feel the biting cold of the water and the suffocating despair.
"No!" Meereen woke from his nightmare, sweat dripping from his body, his heart pounding. The reality of the dream chilled him. This was no ordinary nightmare; it was a warning from the Valar, a warning of the coming upheaval, the wrath of war, and the cataclysm of nature.
He could no longer sleep, so he immediately got up and rushed to find Finrod. In the flickering candlelight, he described the devastating dream to Finrod with a pale face.
"The earth cracked, the sea flooded back... Beleriand sank..." Finrod's eyes were filled with unprecedented solemnity, and his brows were tightly furrowed. Everyone knew the accuracy of Meereen's predictive dreams. He had foreseen the cruelty of the Battle of Tears and the prophecy of Earendil's star in advance.
"This is the price of war," Finrod said in a low voice. "The clashing power of the Valar and Morgoth is enough to tear apart this scarred land. We must act now!"
Without hesitation, the order was swiftly passed down. Doriath, Nargothrond, Gondolin, the Mouths of Sirion... all Elven kingdoms and human settlements received the highest level of warning: immediately begin a mass evacuation south and east, to safer areas, higher ground or further inland, away from Angband and the potential sinking zone. Priority was given to women, children, the elderly, and civilians unable to fight. Food, seeds, important books, and artifacts were urgently packed. Although many were skeptical, under the authority of their leader and the confirmation of past prophecies in Meereen, the evacuation proceeded in an orderly manner amidst a tragic and tense atmosphere. With tears in their eyes, countless Elves and Men bid farewell to their ancestral homes and embarked on an unknown journey, seeking only a glimmer of hope in the impending catastrophe.
In the year 545 of the First Age, the Redeemed of Valinor, like a ray of judgment rending the dark firmament, landed on the long western coastline of Beleriand. Their arrival was not silent, but accompanied by a roar that shook the foundations of the world. The white ships of the Teleri, like moving mountains on the sea, gracefully and resolutely broke through the waves of Belegère, carrying the divine power they bore to this tormented land. As the first rays of the Light of Aman, reflected from the armor of the Vanyar, pierced the northern haze of Middle-earth, Morgoth roared with rage and terror from the depths of Angband, sensing the true doom of destruction.
From the moment the war began, the overwhelming might of the Valar coalition was on display. This wasn't just a clash of mortal armies, but rather a complete purification of the dark creations by divine power.
Manwë's Air Maiar rode storms that ripped through the clouds, sweeping entire armies of Orcs high into the sky like dead grass, only to slam them back against the jagged rocks. The Earth Maiar crumbled the outer fortifications of Angband with their march, sending massive fissures swallowing countless minions of darkness. The Light Maiar shone with a light brighter than the sun, and wherever they went, the Orcs and wolves who feared the light melted like ice and snow, howling as they turned to ash. Their power was a crushing force of law, a natural restraint of the Light of Arda against the distortions of darkness.
The Vanyar, untainted by the blood of Middle-earth, marched like a moving fortress of light. Their songs were no longer the melodious melody of feasting, but war songs imbued with divine power, inspiring their own and disheartening their enemies. Their weapons and armor shone with the brilliance of stars, and the swords of the Orcs struck upon them like rock. Their advance was unwavering and unstoppable. Wherever they passed, filth was purified, darkness was dispelled, and lands were temporarily soothed by divine light.
The Noldor, who had chosen to remain in Aman, finally found an outlet for centuries of suppressed rage. They fought for the tarnished glory of Tirion, seeking revenge for the blood shed among their kin! Their tactics were masterful, their swordsmanship unrivaled among all races, and the fire of vengeance burned in their eyes. Like the sharpest silver-blue blades, they pierced the densest ranks of Morgoth's host, engaging in bloody hand-to-hand combat with Balrogs and behemoths. The banners of the Noldor fluttered in the smoke, their every wave echoing with the wails of the enemy.
Although the Teleri Elves did not directly participate in the battle, their fleet was the lifeline of this sea-crossing expedition. Countless white ships ply the coast, delivering a constant stream of reinforcements and supplies, so vast that the coastline of Belegaer seemed covered with swan feathers. Their superb seamanship ensured the smooth flow of supply lines, providing a solid backing for the allied forces.
In this decisive battle that determines the fate of the world, the role of mankind is full of tragedy and complexity.
Despite their dwindling bloodlines and small numbers, the surviving descendants of the Edain displayed the highest levels of courage and loyalty. Following the banners of their elven allies, armed with worn weapons and clad in crude armor, they charged relentlessly into the fiercest battles. They fought to reclaim their ravaged homes, avenge their fallen kin, and uphold the faith of light within their hearts. Their sacrifice, a stubborn spark in the long, dark night, earned the elves' deep respect, yet also marked the final tragic tale of humanity's heroic age.
However, not all of humanity chose the light. A significant number of human tribes, long intimidated by the fear Morgoth had sown, lured by promises of land, power, and living space from his minions, or even more spurned by jealousy and resentment of the Elves' long-standing dominance, betrayed their ancient alliance at a crucial moment. They turned their weapons against their former allies and joined Morgoth's dark side. These traitors sowed chaos on the battlefield, stabbing unsuspecting allied warriors in the back and slowing the coalition's advance. Their actions incited immense rage and deep contempt from both the Elves and the Edain. The rift deepened by this betrayal, like a battlefield scar, remained unhealed long after the battle.
The war raged for decades, raging from the coastline to the Black Gate of Angband. Morgoth's power was gradually crippled and dismembered. With the armies of the Valar at the gates and Angband on the brink of collapse, the Dark Lord, desperate and desperate, let out his final, most frantic roar. He unveiled his ultimate weapon, hidden deep within the earth and nurtured over countless ages: a legion of winged dragons.
Angband's vast underground floodgates burst open, accompanied by a terrifying dragon roar that could shatter eardrums. Countless massive shadows covered in obsidian scales soared into the sky! Their wingspans obscured the sun, and every flap unleashed a devastating storm of thunder, lightning, and scorching dragon breath! Flames poured down like cascades of lava, igniting forests, melting rocks, and vaporizing rivers. Lightning chains leaped through the dense formations, bringing widespread death. Poisonous smoke filled the air, obscuring vision and corroding the warriors' minds and bodies. The sudden and ferocious attack of this aerial force far surpassed the destructive power of all previous wars combined.
Amidst this terrifying swarm of dragons, a figure loomed like a moving mountain, casting a shadow that could have enveloped an entire army—the Black Dragon Ancalagon, the largest, most powerful, and most terrifying dragon ever to have emerged from Arda. Its scales seemed to absorb all light, the embodiment of pure darkness. Its breath was no longer fire or lightning, but a torrent of shadow, laced with the very essence of destruction, corrupting every space it passed through. Its roar could shake mountains and tremble the heart of the bravest warriors. Ancalagon's appearance instantly shifted the tide of battle. The Valar's lines were ripped apart by the dragons' onslaught, forcing even the mightiest Maiar warriors to retreat. The allied forces retreated steadily toward the coast. Victory seemed to tilt once again toward Morgoth, and the shadow of despair loomed once more.
Just when the Valar army was in danger of survival, in the western sky, the star carrying all the hopes of Middle-earth - Earendil descended on the battlefield with unprecedented brilliant light.
Eärendil steered the great ship of Venkilot, reforged by the Valar and bathed in sacred white flame, like a dawn star piercing a despairing night sky. The Silmaril around his neck sensed the presence of the Ultimate Darkness and shone with an unprecedented, pure radiance, a radiance that pierced even the shadows of Ancalagon. At the same time, Eärendil issued a call, not a horn, but a spiritual resonance emanating from the very source of light.
The sky responded, and Thorondor, the Eagle King, uttered a cry that pierced the clouds and split the rocks. He led all the eagles, gulls, and other sacred birds from Middle-earth and the Western Seas, and they gathered from all directions, as if obeying the highest command since the creation of the world. Their numbers were so great that they covered the sky, and their white wings reflected the brilliance of sunlight and gems, forming a silver ocean of feathers and courage to fight against the wings of the dark dragon.
A decisive aerial battle, a decisive moment in the world's fate, erupted in the shattered skies of Beleriand, a final clash of light and darkness in the heavens. With unparalleled agility and courage, the great eagles swooped down upon the massive winged dragons, their sharp beaks and talons tearing at their scales and blinding their eyes. Flocks of seabirds stormed the dragons, disrupting their flight and breath. The dragons retaliated with a furious volley of fire, thunder, and talons. Eagles and birds wailed, their breath reduced them to ash, or their claws tore them apart and they fell. The battle was fierce beyond imagination: roars, thunder, the clashing of wings, and the roar of clashing energies woven into a doomsday symphony that raged for a whole day and night, the sky bathed in fire, lightning, and falling feathers and scales.
As the battle raged into the dawn of the second day, the first faint rays of light struggled to penetrate the smoke of battle. In this fiercest moment of the struggle between light and darkness, Earendil locked onto the heart of darkness—Ancalagon. Venkilot transformed into a blazing arrow of light. Protected by Thorondor and the giant eagles, Venkilot swiftly weaved between the deadly dragon's breath and the thunderbolt, dodging the Ancalagon's mighty claws that could shatter mountain peaks. Earendil poured all his will, courage, and boundless love for Middle-earth into his bow, along with the light power of the Silmarils.
A ray of light that embodies the legacy of the Two Holy Trees, the blessings of the Valar, and all the hopes of the creatures in Middle-earth, like the first ray of light at the beginning of creation, shot with incredible precision at the most vulnerable ancient scar on Ancalagon's huge head, and the light penetrated unhindered.
Ankara had just unleashed the most shrill, most terrifying wail since the birth of Arda, a wail that even caused the earth to tremble violently once more. Its mountainous form suddenly stiffened, and the dark fire burning in its eyes instantly extinguished. Deprived of all power, this mighty dragon plummeted from the sky like a mountain severed from its foundations! Its trajectory resembled that of a doomsday meteorite, ultimately slamming down with devastating force upon the three towering peaks of Thangorodrim, a mass of volcanic ash, pain, and dark magic.
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