Eru,
have you,
forsaken me?
----
An Age later:
'Yes, You have. Yes, You have,'
the baffled king whispers, hands warm in his father's blood.
I have not, I have not, He cries, mourns
I was only not a jealous God.
The younger sons look from death to heaven
and say sadly, He was our Father too.
The candles are snuffed.
Dark squeezes forth its line of white pilgrims.
----
'Severed from our bower, we march upon this hour
We march! We march! We are strong, and do not cower!
We seek him in his den, we boys now grown to men,
We go! We go, e'en our one against his ten!
Lead us to your prows, that we may keep our vows
Lead us, for our fate is writ upon our brows!'
(Confusion. Chaos ensues.)
'Let us set sail, for we do not quail
Do not! Do not! And we will not fail!
Where all is night, and robbed of light
We go in might! We go to fight!'
(Faster and faster. Madness descends.)
'We go to war, 'gainst one we abhor,
For greater glory of Vali - '
(Abrupt end to downward-spiralling rhyme. The marching tune
gives way
to an unchoreographed horror of blind frustration
of
weapons slicing through flesh
rrrrrrip, squirt, gush, aaaa, aaaa, aaaee,
sordid sounds of elven dying,
like Ungoliant sucking lifeblood from a simple tear
of her claw.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip.)
Findekano!
'Findekano Prince, none braver 'fore or since - '
the singer stops as he beholds a Teler princess running, running,
and takes a shaft to her and she bleeds to death
Fingon unhearing, tearful
panting,
gold-braided head awhirl, stops his graceful
gleam-bladed swirl
for a moment, calls
'Maitimo!'
On the other side, he is sweeping, tackling,
killing none. Enjoying
the breath of speed, feeling unbound and safe
in the circle of his sword, unwary
of committing a crime
for Maedhros sees Maedhros and no other.
Third Finwë, mighty son, thy day of glory hath begun -
a bard begins when the prince unknowing cuts
the soft belly of a fishwife;
bewildered, bloodlust does not take him,
but the wonder of such a thing, that he could swing and cut a swathe
and mistake a life for rushing wind
'Damn your oath!' screams someone - Maglor, quite out
of the slow warmth of leaf or light this once,
Maedhros grows fearful and rebels
takes a rage upon himself
'I will not damn my oath!'
More die beneath his blade.
--
No dawn lags behind this night,
no sky turns red at the sight.
It is a various black and blacker. Ulmo shudders.
The sea turns sicksweet after the departing ships.
have you,
forsaken me?
----
An Age later:
'Yes, You have. Yes, You have,'
the baffled king whispers, hands warm in his father's blood.
I have not, I have not, He cries, mourns
I was only not a jealous God.
The younger sons look from death to heaven
and say sadly, He was our Father too.
The candles are snuffed.
Dark squeezes forth its line of white pilgrims.
----
'Severed from our bower, we march upon this hour
We march! We march! We are strong, and do not cower!
We seek him in his den, we boys now grown to men,
We go! We go, e'en our one against his ten!
Lead us to your prows, that we may keep our vows
Lead us, for our fate is writ upon our brows!'
(Confusion. Chaos ensues.)
'Let us set sail, for we do not quail
Do not! Do not! And we will not fail!
Where all is night, and robbed of light
We go in might! We go to fight!'
(Faster and faster. Madness descends.)
'We go to war, 'gainst one we abhor,
For greater glory of Vali - '
(Abrupt end to downward-spiralling rhyme. The marching tune
gives way
to an unchoreographed horror of blind frustration
of
weapons slicing through flesh
rrrrrrip, squirt, gush, aaaa, aaaa, aaaee,
sordid sounds of elven dying,
like Ungoliant sucking lifeblood from a simple tear
of her claw.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip.)
Findekano!
'Findekano Prince, none braver 'fore or since - '
the singer stops as he beholds a Teler princess running, running,
and takes a shaft to her and she bleeds to death
Fingon unhearing, tearful
panting,
gold-braided head awhirl, stops his graceful
gleam-bladed swirl
for a moment, calls
'Maitimo!'
On the other side, he is sweeping, tackling,
killing none. Enjoying
the breath of speed, feeling unbound and safe
in the circle of his sword, unwary
of committing a crime
for Maedhros sees Maedhros and no other.
Third Finwë, mighty son, thy day of glory hath begun -
a bard begins when the prince unknowing cuts
the soft belly of a fishwife;
bewildered, bloodlust does not take him,
but the wonder of such a thing, that he could swing and cut a swathe
and mistake a life for rushing wind
'Damn your oath!' screams someone - Maglor, quite out
of the slow warmth of leaf or light this once,
Maedhros grows fearful and rebels
takes a rage upon himself
'I will not damn my oath!'
More die beneath his blade.
--
No dawn lags behind this night,
no sky turns red at the sight.
It is a various black and blacker. Ulmo shudders.
The sea turns sicksweet after the departing ships.