A rage no ocean could quale
He stormed at HIM, crying:

Nurthoniel!
Nurthoniel!

His face was dark with fury
His hair blackend with blood
As he stormed at Him
The ground trembled
The very Earth moaned
With sword in hand
He attacked and plunged Gormagil,
The sword of his fallen bride, into
His very heart. HE, trembled.
As he fell, he gave one last cry of horror
And was never seen in MiddleEart again
He ran all that his tired, worn and trembling legs could carry him
To her side
He kneeled beside her and took her hand
She was more beautiful in death, than in life
It seemed to him
And so, he wept, for the first time in his life
His tears fell on her face and they seemed so clean, so pure, in this land
Of filth, dirt and decay, the land of Mordor
And so he stood, kneeling beside her but suddenly,
With a last effort he rised to his feet
And desperatly screamed:

"Nurthoniel!"

and he lifted his small dagger and thrust it into,
what seemed, his very own soul
And so He fell next to Her and reunited with her in death.
Many tales were told of Dûnelinian, the mightiest of Elven Kings,
And his bride, the fair, Nurthoniel.