Chapter 2
Manwë sat atop his throne, in the moutains of Valinor, forever watching Middle-earth...his father's creation. But, his eyes surely were failing him now. He could not see past the great, dark cloud. He told no one of this, dismissing it as just a trick of the eyes. Surely there could not be another Shadow...He had been able to see the North throughout this..but no longer. This troubled him, yet he told no one. Sauron could not be back...nothing could bring back Morgoth...Or so he thought. All the Elves except for a few hundred had passed through the veil into Valinor...no more would come. The only way he could find out would be to send someone...
Manwë's train of thught was broken as he realized Gandalf the White was bowing at his feet. Manwë spoke, the air feeling and smelling like a warm spring day. "Ah, Gandalf! What brings you here?" Gandalf stood up, his blue eyes young again. "You speak rhetorically. You know why I am here. Look into the East." Manwë disregarded this "Gandalf, you speak foolishly. There is nothing to be seen in the East." Gandalf's eyes turned serious. "Darkness is there, Manwë. You know this. You know who is to blame for the Darkness. At least your eyes could penetrate Sauron's veil..." The warm spring air seemed to be sucked from the throne room atop the mountain like a vacuum. "He is not back, Gandalf. He was destroyed...all those years ago...he couldn't be back...." Gandalf sighed "Manwë, you know he is back. iMorgoth/i has returned. The air turned cold. "No...He couldnt be...." Manwë's hand shook. "He'll destroy it! We haven't a chance.....he'll come to Valinor.....keep his promise......." Manwë collapsed into his throne "We have no Elves to command anymore...Man wont listen...." Gandalf stood tall "Send me." Manwë looked up, his eyes stricken with fear "Go, Gandalf. Go and save us." Gandalf turned on a heel, leaving Manwë's throne, as Manwë sat slumped on it, head in hands, sobbing. For the first time, it began to rain in Valinor, the sky turning dark.
Morgoth sat atop his throne in Armath, relishing the darkness around him, the smell of brimstone in the air. The clinking of hammers molding swords could be heard, along with the cries of Orcs. Morgoth was preparing an army. He had Seen an uprising in the imminent future. The Dark Tower had long een abandoned, it now was a crumbling ruin of black stone. Morgoth had chosen Armath for his home, a mountain once surrounded by forest, once a home of Elves. Now it was black stone, an monolith standing tall, Minas Tirith barely visible in the darkness, reducing the Mountains of Shadow surrounding Mordor to hills. The mountain had sprung up from the bowles of the earth soon after Morgoth fell, for the first time. Morgoth ran his small, black tongue along his teeth, drawing blood, which ran black, evaporating into a black mist when it hit the ground. His elongated index finger, more like a claw, stood out among the blackness, the darkest of red. His other fingers were claws, making clicking sounds as they met stone. His slitlike red eyes were very large in comparison to his head. Had he not been Morgoth, it would almost be comical. Except Morgoth meant Death, the most eternal of punishments. The only punishment that Morgoth ever gave out. Morgoth laughed harshly as he was lost in his daydreams in the eternal Night, now he would kill, maim, destroy, when the uprising came.
Elvaldur thought he woke up early that day, opening his eyes only to see nothing; just blackness. Opressive blackness. It seemed to press on his chest, making it hard to breath. Only then did he realize what had happened. Darkness had fallen. He smelled the burning of wood, of iflesh/i. Elvaldur jumped out of his tent, staggering in the knee deep black snow. Most of his camp was a smoldering ruin, women screaming, men sobbing, children silent. His tent had blocked out most of the noise, and Elvaldur cursed the tent material. He Walked among the ruins of the tent, men, women, and a few children solemnly following the somber parade as Elvaldur examind the ruins in the Darkness. He turned around, looking at his party, about 40 men, 20 women, and about 5 children. He snarled "Gather your supplies. Armor, swords, arrows, whatever. We move in two hours." A pair of violet eyes looked at Elvaldur from the darkness,reflecting what little light was left. Elvaldur's own yellow eyes avoided the careful gaze, which seemed to penetrate his soul. He remained looking at the ground for two hours as he donned his silver Elven armor, sheathing a long sword, 5 daggers, and 2 knives. On his back was an ornate bow, protected by an even more ornate shield. He stepped out, boots cruncing against the permafrost, the shiny metal frosting a bit. He mounted his horse, one of the only ones left. He clicked his tongue, and the small party of people, with grungy armor, a few tinder dry wagons filled with supplies creaked long as they slowly walked towards the South, heading for warmer lands. The North would become a wasteland now, devoid of life except for Orcs. Elvaldur fingered the Horn of Mirkwood as they silently wound along the mountain paths, the only sound the coughing of men, the creaking of the wheels.
Manwë sat atop his throne, in the moutains of Valinor, forever watching Middle-earth...his father's creation. But, his eyes surely were failing him now. He could not see past the great, dark cloud. He told no one of this, dismissing it as just a trick of the eyes. Surely there could not be another Shadow...He had been able to see the North throughout this..but no longer. This troubled him, yet he told no one. Sauron could not be back...nothing could bring back Morgoth...Or so he thought. All the Elves except for a few hundred had passed through the veil into Valinor...no more would come. The only way he could find out would be to send someone...
Manwë's train of thught was broken as he realized Gandalf the White was bowing at his feet. Manwë spoke, the air feeling and smelling like a warm spring day. "Ah, Gandalf! What brings you here?" Gandalf stood up, his blue eyes young again. "You speak rhetorically. You know why I am here. Look into the East." Manwë disregarded this "Gandalf, you speak foolishly. There is nothing to be seen in the East." Gandalf's eyes turned serious. "Darkness is there, Manwë. You know this. You know who is to blame for the Darkness. At least your eyes could penetrate Sauron's veil..." The warm spring air seemed to be sucked from the throne room atop the mountain like a vacuum. "He is not back, Gandalf. He was destroyed...all those years ago...he couldn't be back...." Gandalf sighed "Manwë, you know he is back. iMorgoth/i has returned. The air turned cold. "No...He couldnt be...." Manwë's hand shook. "He'll destroy it! We haven't a chance.....he'll come to Valinor.....keep his promise......." Manwë collapsed into his throne "We have no Elves to command anymore...Man wont listen...." Gandalf stood tall "Send me." Manwë looked up, his eyes stricken with fear "Go, Gandalf. Go and save us." Gandalf turned on a heel, leaving Manwë's throne, as Manwë sat slumped on it, head in hands, sobbing. For the first time, it began to rain in Valinor, the sky turning dark.
Morgoth sat atop his throne in Armath, relishing the darkness around him, the smell of brimstone in the air. The clinking of hammers molding swords could be heard, along with the cries of Orcs. Morgoth was preparing an army. He had Seen an uprising in the imminent future. The Dark Tower had long een abandoned, it now was a crumbling ruin of black stone. Morgoth had chosen Armath for his home, a mountain once surrounded by forest, once a home of Elves. Now it was black stone, an monolith standing tall, Minas Tirith barely visible in the darkness, reducing the Mountains of Shadow surrounding Mordor to hills. The mountain had sprung up from the bowles of the earth soon after Morgoth fell, for the first time. Morgoth ran his small, black tongue along his teeth, drawing blood, which ran black, evaporating into a black mist when it hit the ground. His elongated index finger, more like a claw, stood out among the blackness, the darkest of red. His other fingers were claws, making clicking sounds as they met stone. His slitlike red eyes were very large in comparison to his head. Had he not been Morgoth, it would almost be comical. Except Morgoth meant Death, the most eternal of punishments. The only punishment that Morgoth ever gave out. Morgoth laughed harshly as he was lost in his daydreams in the eternal Night, now he would kill, maim, destroy, when the uprising came.
Elvaldur thought he woke up early that day, opening his eyes only to see nothing; just blackness. Opressive blackness. It seemed to press on his chest, making it hard to breath. Only then did he realize what had happened. Darkness had fallen. He smelled the burning of wood, of iflesh/i. Elvaldur jumped out of his tent, staggering in the knee deep black snow. Most of his camp was a smoldering ruin, women screaming, men sobbing, children silent. His tent had blocked out most of the noise, and Elvaldur cursed the tent material. He Walked among the ruins of the tent, men, women, and a few children solemnly following the somber parade as Elvaldur examind the ruins in the Darkness. He turned around, looking at his party, about 40 men, 20 women, and about 5 children. He snarled "Gather your supplies. Armor, swords, arrows, whatever. We move in two hours." A pair of violet eyes looked at Elvaldur from the darkness,reflecting what little light was left. Elvaldur's own yellow eyes avoided the careful gaze, which seemed to penetrate his soul. He remained looking at the ground for two hours as he donned his silver Elven armor, sheathing a long sword, 5 daggers, and 2 knives. On his back was an ornate bow, protected by an even more ornate shield. He stepped out, boots cruncing against the permafrost, the shiny metal frosting a bit. He mounted his horse, one of the only ones left. He clicked his tongue, and the small party of people, with grungy armor, a few tinder dry wagons filled with supplies creaked long as they slowly walked towards the South, heading for warmer lands. The North would become a wasteland now, devoid of life except for Orcs. Elvaldur fingered the Horn of Mirkwood as they silently wound along the mountain paths, the only sound the coughing of men, the creaking of the wheels.