So. This is my first real attempt at an epic story spanning multiple characters, so forgive me if I slip up anywhere. If you notice any mistakes in the text, inform me in the comments. The Silmarillion, the Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit are the property of The Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema, and not my own.


And so it came to pass, that in the final days of the World, which was Arda, the ancient dead again rose and lived and breathed, and the legends of Elder Days again walked the world. And the shadow was reborn anew, and the Powers of the Valar failed them, and the world was torn asunder in the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles. This is the tale of that ending, or rather, the Beginning of the Ending of Endings. Here shall be told in full The Second Doom of Túrin son of Hurin, who named himself Turambar, that is, "Master of Fate", the Fall of the Valar, that were the Powers of the World Under Eru, and the Coming of the End to Arda.


Valinor, The Council of the Valar.

The light of the ever-radiant sun beamed through the ornate windows of the mighty Hall, fracturing and splitting into a million fragments of radiant multicolored sunbeams as it passed through the diamond windows. The Great Hall lay illuminated, and light shone at every corner of the vast, colossal dome. The floor shimmered with unearthly beauty, and the walls were decorated with beautiful friezes decorating the History of Arda and all the lands within. In the center of the room were arranged fourteen seats, adorned with jewels and crystals mighty, words of power carved upon them.

And upon each of the seats sat one of the Valar, the powers of the world. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters and the Seas, sat upon his sea-green throne, arrayed in robes of blue, his dark, stormy eyes glinting with the untold might of the waves. Yavanna, Queen of the Trees, lay sprawled upon a mighty carved wooden seat, clad in robes of green and white. And at the epicenter of the circle, facing the mighty doors of the hall, at Manwe, Lord of Eagles, King of the Valar and Master of the Skies. Terrible and beautiful all at once they seemed, and the power of all the fourteen, gathered there in that place, seemed to make the very air quiver with awe.

But one was missing. One seat stood empty, ebony black, like carven night, but beautiful too, with the promise of things to come. The throne of Mandos, Speaker of Doom.

And then, with a clamor like the rolling of thunder, the doors burst open. A figure stumbled in, haggard and broken. Dust and mud coated what had once been fine, beautiful robes, and fell off in clumps, marring the beauty of the hall. Baleful grey eyes peeked up from under matted black hair, and a mighty knotted black beard dropped down to the ground. Behind the man, striding in slowly, his simple red and grey robes a contrast to the fine raiment of the all the other Vala save Aule, who was clad in a smith's grimy robes, came Mandos, Lord of Doom. His eyes, stern and pitiless, pushed the cringing man forward.

In a voice like stone breaking on steel, he spoke. "Tell them your name."

The haggard man began to laugh, his crackling giggles echoing in the palatial hall. Through the mad giggles he spoke. "Why should I? So you can laugh in my face and mock me, and make me like the fool? Or would mighty king Manwe and his cronies have pity on me? Let me kneel and redeem myself?" He spat a curse in a long-dead language, spittle flying from his lips as he surged forth with strength unknown, to land before the throne of Manwe. He pulled himself to his feet, his ruined clothing a pitiful sight before the radiance of the King of the Valar. The man staggered, and his eyes fixed upon Manwe's. With a ragged breath, he drew close to Manwe's face and, in a voice dripping with sarcasm and proud defiance, he whispered, his foul breath beating in Manwe's unflinching face.

"My name is Ar-Pharazon, and I am The Golden, King of Men and Lord of Numenor, The Golden Kingdom. And even here, in thy hall, you hold no sway over me, Lord of breezes and dust, master of birds!" His voice rose to a fitful tempo, and at the last, he fell back, as if pushed by some unknown power. On the far side of the circle, Aule rose, grasping for his hammer at his side.

"You would speak so to one of the Vala-"

"Calm." The word radiated through the Hall, and Aule slumped back into his throne, his rage quelled, as Manwe in turn rose from his seat, stepping over the giggling form of the last King of Numenor, and walked to Mandos, who stood in the centre of the circle formed by the Valar's thrones.

"He is not supposed to wake. Not yet." The words were simple, yet conveyed meaning so profound the earth seemed to shudder.

"And yet he does. And yet, my Halls are empty." said Mandos, his voice echoing with finality.

"Empty?" Rang a voice from the ring of thrones. Varda cocked her head at Manwe, her purple robes falling about her as her gleaming eyes locked with Mandos' own. "But the time is not yet come. The Dagor Dagorath-"

"Is countless eons beyond. So it was written in Music. So Eru Illuvatar wills it. So it should be." interrupted Mandos. "And yet. It is not."

"How can this be? Arda shall not end for eons to come." spoke Manwe as he turned to study the prone body of Ar-Pharazon, who still laughed to himself in his madness.

"Yet, it is ending. My Halls are filled with silence. Darkness lies in Valinor, I cannot see what comes next, nor feel the Will of Eru, and beyond the Shadow and the Void...he is stirring."

A voice like birdsong rang through the air. "This is not the Will of Eru. It cannot be. The world is yet young, the Powers are not yet weary, and the guard does not sleep. All I have made-all we have made, all Eru has made...it cannot end so young. " Yavanna spoke, and her tone was anxious and troubled. A murmur of assent spread through the Hall.

Mandos broke the troubling silence, his voice hewing the air like cold steel. "Little can I see beyond shadow, but what I do see is troubling." The murmuring stopped. The air grew tense, and even mad Ar-Pharazon stopped his laughing. Mandos was speaking a Doom.

"The Realm that was lost shall rise again, and the Arkenstone returned to it's Master. When the Ringbearer wakes, The Blacksword shall fall before the Mount of Doom, and the Helm of Dor-Lomin be lost in the flames that birthed and ended The One Ring, and Túrin will pass from Arda. Where the stars meet the earth, and the ground grows black with death and red with blood, shall the fate of a Silmaril be chosen. Twice shall the love of his heart of hearts call, but once will he answer, and only once, and then his fate is decided, and he must die. Ancalagon the Black will wake again, and the doom that he shall write will be burned upon Arda forevermore.

Beyond this, I see flames, and shadows unnumbered, and the waking of an evil long forgotten. And a Vala...a Vala must fall, and be lost forever, beyond the reach of all save Eru, and die true death."

And silence fell upon the Hall of the Valar, and so was spoken the Third and Final Doom and Mandos, and begun, without warning or heraldry, the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles, called by some The Doom of Gods and Men, Ragnarok in the tongues of old. And so was begun the beginning of the End of Arda, and the Creation of Illuvatar was entered unto it's final Doom and End.


Mormegil I

He opened his eyes. He was lying in a field, a meadow of lush, sunkissed green grass, one that stretched on to the edges of the horizon. Everything felt peaceful, so very peaceful. A feeling of bliss seemed to hang over him, though where it came from, he could not say. Better than what came before. Better than the darkness, the darkness he could not remember, and the nightmares he could not see, and the shadows that seemed to consume his very being. With a frightened gasp, he passed back into sleep. Long he struggled there, in shadow, without yet a glimpse of light.

When he opened his eyes again, it was night. The light of the moon was began to rise, and the Sickle of the Valar hung shining against the black field of the night sky. His eyes tracked the moon's slow progress as he lay in the dark green grass of the meadow, gazing up at the twinkling stars. He had not seen them for centuries, for ages uncounted, yet how he knew this, he did not know. He knew nothing, now that he reflected on it. But for some reason unknown to him, he was not alarmed. He had no name, yet he was happy. The elves would have called him-elves? Did he know elves?

This led him back on a meandering, lazy train of thought, and then onto another, but his thought returned ever back to his memory. Who was he, indeed?

With that, his bliss was passed, and he pulled himself into a crouch, gazing at the grass around him, the slight breeze in his face. It was all so...beautiful. He blinked out of his slight stupor and rose again to his feet. With surprise, he noted his dark brown cloak and dark green tunic, ringed with fine mail, for he remembered being unclothed when first he woke. At his hilt hung an empty leather scabbard, and at the edges of his vision, he saw his dark black hair, which fell almost to his waist, as if it had not been cut for years. Around him, the field spread on, in the distance rising into mighty rolling hills. He began to start towards them, but before he had taken more than a few steps, he felt some unnamed force calling him back, pulling him whence he had come.

In the light of the moon, he glimpsed something in the dark, among the grasses, and stooped. Squinting, he reached forward and picked it up. A sword. His hand slipped into groves worn by fingers-his fingers-into the hilt long ago, almost instinctively. With a single, fluid movement, he rose from the grasses and held the sword to the sky, craning his neck to see along it's length. The blade seemed to him darker than the night sky, and cold and dark. Black it was, black as night.

Revulsion filled him, bile rising in his throat, though he knew not why. He staggered, and his eyes filled with tears, tears for Nienel, for-Nienel? He stumbled again, and the sword seemed to speak to him, calling to him like a master to his thrall. With a shudder, he moved to put the sword down, but his arm, as if by some will of it's own, moved elsewhere, slipping it into the empty scabbard like water into a glass. With a groan of pain, he fell to his knees. Darkness filled his vision, and he collapsed.


With a shout, he woke. The dragon, the dragon was coming, he had to warn them-dragon? Warn who? He was on a small bed, wrapped in sheets and cloths. He was sat in a small room, with a ceiling a few inches above his head. A cupboard sat near a small round door on the far side of the room, and his black sword-his now, this he knew, for some unfathomable reason-and his clothing lay in it. Save for that, he was alone. The first rays of the early morning sun streamed through the windows.

Suddenly, the door broke open, and a small figure broke in.

"Mama! Papa! He's awake!" The cheerful voice cried jubilantly. The small girl, for a girl it was ran over to him.

"You're so big! Are you a Man? From Gondor?" A thought caught the little girl's mind, and she squealed. "Are you Elessar, like in Papa's stories?" She began poke and prod him, and he smiled. Her hair was fair, and her face though young, was radiant with childlike beauty.

"No, little one. I'm not from...Gondor, was it?"

The girl pouted then looked up, smiling again. "That's OK! What's your name?" She stopped, then looked down, abashed. "Sorry. I fer'got my manners. I'm Elanor. Who're you?"

He tried not to smile wider, but could not help it. He reached out a hand and patted her on the head, his massive hand seeming to envelop her tiny head. "I am..."

Wronged. Lost. Betrayed. Cursed.

"...I was called Neithan. Yes. Neithan is my name."

She smiled, and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, a voice called from the doorway.

"Elanor! Come here."

The little girl waved bye to Neithan, then turned and ran to the arms of the short man in the doorway, who Neithan turned to face. He was short, like the girl, but seemed somehow to be in the prime of adulthood, and seemed of stature to a dwarf. He had light blonde hair, like the girl, and his eyes were set and firm, like one who has seen much they would rather have not.

"Welcome, then, whoever you are." said the short man. "I was rather hoping to be there when a woke up, but a guess little Elanor here is all the welcoming party you've got." The little girl grinned mischievously.

Neithan looked around him for a moment, collecting his wits, then spoke.

"My...My name is Neithan. I think. I don't remember much these days. Much of anything."

A shadow fell over the short man's face. "Another one, I s'ppose. Cor, and you have no idea who y'are, right?"

Neithan nodded, confused.

"Thought as much." the man said. He walked over to the bed and held out a short, stumpy hand.

"Th' name's Sam. Samwise Gamgee. Let's get you up off that bed and get some food in your belly." The man said with a smile.

"Neithan. Of...of Amon Rudh." he said, and clasped Sam's hand in his own.