Through The Eyes Of A Wanderer Chapter 1: Time To Move On, a silmarillion fanfic

Based around all of Tolkien's earlier works; the Silmarillion and such. Work in progress. Tolkien is not mine, neither are his brainchildren.

The young elf furtively glanced to right and left of him. The battle he was leaving was one he should never have fought in. All of his company save he and his present leader had been killed, and since Gwindor had been taken, plainly he was the only one left. Gwindor wouldn't survive. No one survived being taken by Morgoth. It just wasn't done. But back to the problem at hand. Where would he go now? Certainly not back to Nargothrond; the thought of telling all of those people the bad tidings was inconceivable. Not only that, he had been feeling restless for a while now anyway. He could go to Gondolin. Yes. That was just the place. He had wanted to see the 'Hidden Rock' for many years, and now he could. It wouldn't be easy; the Gondolindrim guarded their gates with jealous care, but he'd always enjoyed a challenge. Let them think what they liked at Nargothrond; he wasn't going to tell them he was alive. It would just go down as another sorrow, a whole host killed. He didn't call Nargothrond home, he called no place home. He was a wanderer, and he wasn't going to stop now. He enjoyed his life, and got to see the world. He'd always wanted to see the world, before those dratted mortals ruined it, which they inevitably would. So it was decided then: it was time to move on again.

That was me, on a typical day. When I got bored of seeing the same scenery, I simply moved away to where it was more interesting. I relished the freedom, the sights, the new people, which so many others envied. The day you see above, however, was far from typical. It was the most untypical day I had ever seen. It is not every day that you go and fight for the future of the world. Even less that you lose. We lost morale, the field, friends, our king, our dignity, sometimes even our lives. Even worse, Morgoth won. He didn't even fight, but he still won. Dark lords are often like that. They let their armies do the hard bits. And his armies drove us like cattle. It was shameful, and the worst of it? It was not the first, or last, of its kind, though it may have been the worst.

Gwindor, our captain, and a very fine fellow too, went against the king Orodreth and all common sense to get us to that battle. Not that I blame him, he was recovering still from the loss of Gelmir his brother from the last battle he had fought in. He tried to make us think he was over it, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Even I, who hadn't even fought in the Dagor Bragollach, could see that it'd affected him more than he made out. The truth was, he was still grieving, and wanted to avenge him. Poor Gwindor. Little did he know how big a part his loss was to make.

We were in the front line, raring to go and kill a few dozen Orcs, waiting for the infamous sons of Feanor to make their overdue appearance, when Morgoth loosed his first strike. One thing about Morgoth, I couldn't help but admire his military skill, despite the fierce hatred for him and the means with which he displayed that skill. The next few minutes were not going to contribute heavily to my admiration. The Orcs who were probably under the delusion of being in a position of authority brought out a blinded prisoner to try to provoke us. Gwindor, who had fought in more battles than I cared to imagine, guessed this, and warned our small company. There were only about fifty to a hundred of us, but we had been united in the face of war, and weren't going to forget it in a hurry. Every member of that courageous company saved my life at least once, and I daresay I did the same. "Friends," said Gwindor. "I'll wager anything you like that he's going to try to provoke us into fighting too early. Looks like a prisoner to me. Now, whoever he is; you may know him, don't move a muscle! The battle hangs from a slender thread…so whatever…you do – CHARGE!!!"

Later, when I had had time to meditate upon this bemusing speech, I pieced together what had really happened. Poor Gwindor had recognised the prisoner, and, unhappy chance! it had been none other than Gelmir. He had restrained himself, still talking to us, his voice strained, and watched in horror as first Gelmir's hands, then his feet, and finally his head were viciously slashed off, punctuated by the foul laughter and promises of Orcs. Furiously he leapt forward and commanded us to charge, though whether he had meant to say it out loud I do not know. All I know is, we all followed suit without hesitation, and it proved to be only the first stroke of ill-fate in a continuous rain of ill-fated strokes. The rest of our side couldn't exactly leave us there to hold them off alone, so they joined us. I was deeply touched through the general battle rage, and fought twice as hard. Gwindor shouldn't have commanded us. But what can I do now?

We could have won even then. The orcs were lessening, and we were fighting still, fuelled by our hatred of Morgoth and the vengeance of those struck by Morgoth; friends, brothers, parents, children, husbands, and, though few know it, even wives and daughters. Those who had told me (I was well known around those parts, and also it was well-known that I could keep a secret) mostly didn't come back, but I do not doubt that there were more. I've never mentioned this to anyone, so I'm not giving away names. It was confidential, after all.

I have seen many things, in my time, crossed the terrible Helcaraxe with Fingolfin, not that I knew him personally, watched open-mouthed as the Moon rose for the first time, though I was but a child, searched for Luthien in Doriath, though I only saw her once, a fleeting glimpse that will ever remain in my mind, but nothing was like the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Amid the ferocious flashes of silver blades, scything their deadly arcs all around, I saw Gwindor being taken; struggling uselessly against the iron grip of whatever creature was holding him. After that horrific sight, I knew that it was time for me to leave. I wish to make one thing clear though, I was not deserting. I was still young, for an Elf, and no one deserved to see the horrors my eyes had witnessed, so I left.

I was not deserting.

More soon. Promise.