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.


Erchamion II


The two men loped along the road, which meandered into the distance, twisting behind hills and rises that even now turned ruby-red as the blood jewel of the sun drowned behind them. Beren strode along at a relaxed pace, his marred arm swinging freely and his other grasping a large bag full of food and supplies, and his other arm poised to balance him his he had to drop the bag and grab Luthien-for that was what he named his strange elven-make sword, having no other name to call it by-at a moment's notice. Beside him, Neithan was much of the same. A hood veiled much of his face, and his sword, which was wholly obscured by the grey wool cloak draped over his body, was simply a bump in the fabric.

They were both on edge. The tales Samwise had told them before their departure had painted a bleak picture. Raiders roamed these hills, and a fearsome bandit lord who rode the lands struck fear into the hearts of all in Bree and the Lone-Lands. The world was a dangerous place nowadays, or so they had gathered. Orcs had sacked many towns in Bree-land of late, and the bandits did not make things any easier. And there were rumors, truth be told, of darker things the further east you went. Rumors wafted down of a civil war in Rohan, and orcs riding down out of the Misty Mountains.

Both men were on edge as they crested a dark grey hill and paused to survey the sight before them. Bree, heart of Bree-Land and one of the biggest cities of men in this part of the world following the War of the Ring. A mighty stone wall circled it, and hundreds of golden lights were already visible from the buildings as the sun sank below the hills. With a nod to the other man, Beren began to pace down the hill, hefting the bag he bore on his shoulder.

As the two walked towards the town, they passed a few wagons full of hobbits and men, some bearing colorful ornaments and decorations, others trinkets and the like, and some bearing foods and pies. The massive wooden gates of Bree were open, though a guardsman in a red mail tunic stood poised at a large wooden wheel to close it as the sun vanished from sight. Six others dressed similarly to him stood at the side of the gate, their weary, hardened eyes scanning each man who passed, gripping the hilts of their swords as if they expected the diminutive hobbits to leap at them and attack.

One of the men stepped in front of them as the last wagon passed through. He was a bearded man with a large figure, though it came from pure muscle, rather than fat, Beren guessed. His eyes scanned them warily, and he barked at them in a gruff voice.

"Name yer'selves, and you, on the left, toss down that fool hood." His dark eyes peered at them, his face twisted into a half-snarl and his hand poised on his sword-hilt. Neithan tossed back his hood, turning his dark eyes to bore into the guard's searching pair.

"We are Haman and Fordric, two traders from the Mark. We bear goods from the Shire back to Rohan. I trust you would not bear the passage of two riders?" He motioned at the bags they hefted, stuffed with some trinkets and cloths Master Samwise had scrounged up. The guard snorted, apparently not impressed by the cover story Sam had told them to feed anyone who asked.

"Where're your ruttin 'orses, then? Aren't you lot s'pposed to ride around on stallions or somesuch?"

In a voice like steel, Neithan spoke. "We would not ride our steeds, steeds of the Riddermark, in lands such as these. They need space to gallop, or would you suggest I ride my warhorse through the streets of your backwater town?" he asked with almost a sneer.

Beren had to stifle a snort. A bit more embellishment than Samwise had suggested, but from the way the other guards were muttering in shock, it would do. The bearded guard wilted, then motioned to another guard holding a flickering lantern. The guard stepped back, clearing the way into Bree. With a dark smile, Neithan flipped his hood up and strode into the town. Beren did the same with his free hand after smiling at the bearded guard in an almost apologetic manner, then paced after the dark-haired warrior.

Bree. A dark place, at night, full of men darting about, dark eyes twinkling out from under dark hoods, stalking the streets with intent. Few walked the dark streets at night, stalking past closed shops and stores, about such dark businesses that people found suitable for the waning hours of the world. Beren and Neithan were not the only hooded, cloaked figures walking those streets, but they were probably the most amicable, for dark eyes peeked out from each alley, and whispers seemed to follow them through the winding streets.

They spotted the inn Samwise had spoken of with almost a breath of relief, a large wooden sign heralding that "The Prancing Pony is open to one and all", beneath a large carving of a galloping pony. The two men strode into the inn, their cloaks billowing behind them. The common room of the Prancing Pony was a boisterous place, full of cheer and light and laughter. On one table, a brightly dressed hobbit danced to the boisterous laughter of his assorted friends, who were hobbits and men both. Niethan even caught the dark red beard of a dwarf among the crowd. In the front of the room, a bard plucked merrily at taut strings on his harp, tapping a foot to his own tune as he relaxed in front of the fireplace. Behind the bar, a wizened old man who still seemed to have more girth and size in him than both men combined whistled to the minstrel's tune as he cleaned a wineglass with a napkin.

Beren walked over to him, Neithan close behind, their cloaks trailing behind them. "Butterbur? Barliman Butterbur?" he asked in an almost conspiratorial tone.

"Tha's me, and always has been! What can I get you men t'night?" thundered the barkeep, his face splitting into a wide smile as he thundered the glass onto the table with more force than Beren had supposed could be left in a man of the barkeep's age. Beren leaned forward.

"Samwise Gamgee sent us." He murmured. Barliman's expression changed from one of jovial friendship, to one of puzzled remembrance, to one of startled shock, and then settled into one of quizzical questioning.

"Gamgee?" Butterbur asked as if he were measuring each word. "Why, that ol' fool of a halfling. Haven't seen him in…why, must be nearing on forty-something years now." He laughed, uneasily. "He came that night with three others, and riders on his heels like a blazing storm." Though Butterbur laughed, he shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"He said to ask for rest, and horses in the morning." Beren said cautiously.

"Same 'thing the bloody wizard asked for all those years ago. Funny how things tend to repeat themselves," Barliman said as if it were not funny in the slightest. "Look, I'll set you up in one of the front rooms, and I've got two geldings that aren't of much worth-ol Mae Harnspotter bought 'em from me, but she died of the Grey Fever las' week, and I've got 'em all but bought already, with no one to take 'em, so you can jus' mount them up and ride away from here." Barliman had been speaking at a rapid pace now, as if trying to convince himself of what he said, and then he fixed them with a stone-cold glare. "Far, far from here. This is a favor to a friend, ol' Gandalf, an' nothing more. I'm no' gonna get mixed up in all that business again."

After multiple assurances that they came bearing no kind of trouble, Barliman ushered the two of them to a small room with two carefully made beds, with a small fire burning in the fireplace. Beren melted into his own bed, tossing aside the worries that awaited him, and hoping, against hope, that he wouldn't have the nightmare again. As he sank into the darkness, he could swear he almost heard a voice, a cold laughter, mocking him for daring to believe such a thing.


Beren was running. Running for his life, through the woods. From what, he knew not. The sleeping enemy's hound. A voice echoed in his head, though he knew not what it meant. Who was the sleeping enemy? Why would his hounds be hunting him? Beren's feet carried him on nonetheless, carrying him over roots and brush as his arms pushed through foliage and branches. Behind him there was a terrible howl, a mighty howl, a howl of death and hate and fear. And pain. Most of all, pain, a pain that would never end. He glanced down, and his eyes widened in horror. His hand was a stump, but a fresh one, a bloody one, dripping blood through the white linen that banded round his arm. Fear and pain shot through him, and the One-Hand spurred himself further through the forests as the Great Wolf hunted him, howling in pain, seeking revenge.

It seemed to Beren that the chase continued forever, days and nights, months and years running through the dark, from the enemy that would not stop, would never stop, the hound of the Enemy, the relentless Warg. And then he turned, and it stood before him, a thing of nightmares, slavering jaws and red eyes full of hate. It's black fur seemed to be aflame, and he smelt burnt flesh, as if the thing were burning from the inside. The writhing beast's belly was devoid of flame, but instead burning red-hot, like the coals of a forge, heaving and falling each time the beast breathed. He could feel the flame from here, and for a moment, he felt pity for the beast. Then it moved, and pity was gone replaced by primal fear, and he turned to run, but he could feel the heat of it's panting on his neck, and then the bite of those terrible teeth, and-


He jolted awake to the blood-curling scream, sweat drenching him, and it took him a moment to register that the scream was not his own. He could still feel the jaws around his neck, and then he reacted to the scream, and sniffed. Smoke. Smoke in Bree. Beside him, Neithan was already standing, that night-black blade in his hands. Beren leaped off of his bed, sliding on his tunic and boots and grabbing his sword. Even as he reached the door, another scream, this one a woman's, split the air. He could hear flames crackling somewhere beyond the door. He burst from the room, into a raging inferno.

The flames danced along the hallway behind him, advancing even further as Neithan barreled through the room door. The two men began to run. The stairs above, to the upper rooms, were ablaze, but he could hear sobbing and wailing from above. The two men locked eyes in silent agreement, and Neithan bounded away to where the first scream had come from and where the fire had started, in the common room. Beren ducked through the flames, holding his cloak to his mouth to protect him from the smoke. Stumbling, he reached the door where the sobbing emanated, which was flung wide open. Inside the room lay a woman, dead, on the floor, obviously having succumbed to the smoke. A baby lay in her arms, sobbing.

Beren lept forward to grab the child, barely escaping with the babe as the roof of the building began to collapse, wood creaking and crumbling in on itself as the flames consumed it. He crawled away from the flames, clutching the wailing boy in his arms as he did so. With a few leaps, he made it down the stairs and sprinted into the common room, the stopped, awestruck.

Neithan stood in the epicenter of the room, dueling the dark-cloaked elf, the one who called himself Eol. Around his feet there lay twisted, mangled, and burnt forms, but there was no disguising what those evil forms had been, in life. Orcs. Orcs, and they had killed many. The hobbit who was dancing earlier lay now in the doorway before Beren's feet, dead, ripped almost in half. And Barliman Butterbur, poor, untrusting, but ultimately kind Barliman Butterbur, lay dead in the ruins of the bar, clutching a shoddily crafted sword stained in blood. Bile and hatred rose in Beren's throat. He clutched the sobbing child to his chest, and Neithan caught his eye.

Run.

Beren danced through the carnage with the baby, as the twin swords clashed, as Eol barked in a foul tongue that hurt his ears and burnt his mind, language he knew not- the Dark Speech of Angband, the tongue of Morgoth, the memories of the veil whispered to him. The foul, depraved words had a chantlike echo about them, and bile rose in his stomach as the Dark Elf chanted them, syllables that twisted the tongue, words that broke the mind. He stumbled outside into the cool Bree air, gasping, panting. Around him, Bree burned. Orcs loped through the streets, and men and women stumbled from their homes. With shock, Beren realized that there were men among the orcs, wearing silvery-black uniforms with a golden tree, running down the people of Bree as efficiently as any Uruk. As man slaughtered man at the side of Uruk, a blood-red pillar of smoke rose into the air, and the howling of wolves rose into the air as the night descended upon Bree.