Manen Ni Liruva?
(How will I sing?)
When I was younger, I would wander away from my studies, from the piles of books and scrolls, poems and legends, and go down to the courtyard. Children of servants would play there. The girls would make houses out of sticks, with pretty banners made of flowers, and the boys would come, filled with destructive energy, and kick down the houses, scattering the sticks about the courtyard, while some stayed together, piling up around the drooping flowers.
This is what I thought of when I rode on to the battlefield. Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Tears Unnumbered, they were calling this battle, but to my poet's mind sprang other names: Sercë Síri, Blood Rivers; Loicor Únótima, Bodies Uncounted; Norto Pella Onótimë, Horror Beyond Reckoning. Corpses were scattered about, each in their own pool of blood, many missing swords, fingers, limbs, heads. Some of these were piled on each other around a now-tattered banner. Piles of gold armour, black hair, and rusty blood held up shreds of blue banners; heaps of leathery skin, snarling death-grins, and dark blood supported rags of blue. So scattered, and so hopeless, yet laying together, killed in a rallying attempt to overcome.
I was looking over the eastern edge of the disaster, where the belated charge of Maedhros failed. For once, I wished that I was one of the Edain, blessed with short vision, for I could see the leagues of carnage, stretched out over what should have rightly been farmland, or meadow. But now, no birds sang here. The sky was empty, save for the dark ashy clouds that spewed from the distant Thangorodrim. I shivered; the sun was already dying in the early afternoon. Granted, it was a blessing, for it slowed the speed of decay among the corpses, allowing the miserable elves and men, charged with finding the bodies of their comrades. The battlefield was already steaming with the stench of rotting flesh.
My stomach lurched, and I bit my lip, determined to hold it down. I am not a warrior, I am a bard. This is not the first battlefield I have seen; indeed, I have slain my fair share of orcs, as has any elf in Beleriand. This is the first battlefield I have seen, though, where you can see a decapitated elfin body sprawled in the dust, its head partially devoured by the skewered orc lying spread-eagle on the ground. This is the first battlefield I have been on where I have dismounted from my horse and carried on on foot, not wanting to disturb the tightly-packed bodies with a hoof. This is the first battlefield I have seen where the corpses have tear streaks running through the grime and blood on their pale cheeks. This is the first battlefield I have seen where the bodies, untouched by Wargs or wolves, are still frozen in agony, though their spirits have long since fled to the peace of Valinor.
As I pick my way over disembodied corpses, I realize that Nirnaeth Arnoediad is proving to be gateway for many firsts. This is the first time no tune is forming in my head so I might sing of the battle to the nobility; the only sound is a dull buzz of grief and astonishment. This is the first time I want to reject my gift from the Valar, the first time I have no desire to sing of heroes. This is the first time I feel hopelessness rather than empowerment at the sight of the banners fluttering listlessly in the wind that's barely existent.
Suddenly, I see two bodies surrounded by a ring of blue, gold, and black. It catches my attention, for I can see open ground in the ring, something I've accepted as a rarity here. I approach it cautiously, as if it's haunted or hallowed. It's a ring of elfin soldiers, armed in the blue and gold garb of Fingon's troops. The must have fought there way here thinking the rest of the army was following them to save Maedhros. They died bravely, keeping Morgoth's forces away from the black-haired captain as he dueled a particularly large orc, the body of which lies hewn on the ground. I'm startled suddenly; I could have sworn the captain's eyes fluttered. I blink to clear my vision and notice that my cheeks are wet. I'm crying? That is why the captain blinked. I was told that by the military commanders that there is no hope of anyone being alive now, four days after the battle, and that anyone who looked alive was probably an agent of Morgoth, veiled so as to trap one of the enemies of Morgoth and bring them to the pits of Thangorodrim, where hope is buried without ceremony. I grit my teeth and force myself to look at the captain. It's odd. He looks at peace; his eyes closed, lips together, and face relaxed. He must have died after the primary battle was over. What a tragedy.
I came to this battlefield, to the site of Unnumbered Tears, to be inspired for songs and epics for the halls those who weren't there, who refused to march on Thangorodrim because they felt betrayed by the Fëanorians. But this tragedy goes beyond words. Nirnaeth Arnoediad cannot even begin to describe the vastness of the fields of blood and gore. How will I sing of this? Will it dishonour those who lost their lives, to sing of them in a way that is far below what they deserve? I find my way back to my horse and ride back to my tent. The parchment is blank in front of me, nearly the same colour as the skin of the dead soldiers. How will I sing of this? Like this:
Manen ni liruva qualmë?
Asmoica laitalë
Ar mussë arcandë
A i qualin callor…
(How will I sing of death/With gentle praise/And soft prayer/For the dead heroes…)
Fin.
Written because I can't stop writing.
Published because I can't stop needing a little publicity.
Borrowed because I am not Tolkien Estates.