-Morgoth and Ungoliant-
In his right hand, Morgoth clenched the Silmarils. Though enclosed within a meticulously crafted crystal coffer, they had begun to sear his flesh, sending tremors through his arm. The divine and pure fire of the Silmarils, even within their prison, consumed the flesh of his hand, and a burning agony spread across the hardened skin of the Dark Lord.
"No unclean flesh shall touch them, nor shall any hand stained with shadow grasp them without burning in eternal torment."
The consecration of the highest of the Valier had bestowed holiness upon the Silmarils. And though Morgoth knew that if he handed them to Ungoliant, they would destroy her, and even direct contact with them caused him great suffering, he did not yield.
Each beat of his being fused with the torment of holding those sacred jewels, forbidden to the touch of dark creatures like himself. Bearing the pain, Morgoth faced Ungoliant, his features contorted by the searing heat in his hand.
"No!" he exclaimed, stepping forward. "You have already received more than you deserve, you wretched spider! I have no more need of you. These gems are mine! You may now return to your dark lair, hiding like the beast you are."
His words made Ungoliant recoil. Her enormous form eclipsed all known measures, her looming silhouette casting a dark omen over Morgoth. Her front legs rose, leaving no doubt, Ungoliant was preparing to claim what, in her twisted perception, was rightfully hers.
Morgoth remained unmoved. Even weakened by years of solitude and the relentless burning of the Silmarils in his grasp, he did not believe the creature would dare to defy him. After all, he was her father, her creator, but above all, he was one of the most feared of the Valar.
Under normal circumstances, Ungoliant would never have dared to challenge Morgoth. But hunger clouded her reason. With a speed unexpected for her great size, she cast forth viscous filaments.
The silken webs gleamed as they swirled around Morgoth, binding and suffocating him. The sticky and deadly substance contrasted sharply with the radiant glow of the Silmarils, whose brilliance burned his hand more fiercely, as if the last will of the Trees of Valinor struck at the one who had played a part in their destruction.
Trapped in the spider's snare, Morgoth found himself helpless. If he were to fight back, he would have to release the Silmarils, and that he would never allow.
Whether out of strategy, pain, or sheer desperation, Morgoth let out a cry, a sound so powerful it reverberated through the mountains, shaking their foundations and cracking the earth beneath them.
The sound was so deafening that, deep within Angband, in the depths of the fortress, the sleeping creatures stirred. They heard the cry of their master. In the long-forgotten caverns abandoned by the Valar in the wars, something moved in the darkness.
The Balrogs.
Dreaded by all who had faced the horrors of the First Wars, these spirits of fire, Maiar corrupted by their fallen kin, rose from the chasms that had seemed sealed. Their awakening sent a tremor across the land, and with the fury of a storm of flame, they ascended to the surface, racing toward the source of the cry.
The fire-born colossi did not take long to arrive. There, in the region of Lammoth, where this event would be remembered as the legend of "The Great Echo."
Seeing their master ensnared, the Balrogs wielded their whips, forged of living flame. Each lash tore through the webs that bound Morgoth. The clash of fire against silk was so fierce that Ungoliant hesitated, suddenly realizing the enormity of the problem her hunger had created.
From her massive form, a thick cloud of dark smoke billowed forth, a veil to shield her from the inevitable assault. In the midst of the roaring flames and clashing shadows, the voices of the Balrogs rang out, guttural and distorted, issuing their warning to the spider.
"Retreat!" "Retreat!"
Faced with the fiery wrath of the Balrogs, Ungoliant had no choice but to flee, leaving behind the web she had woven, abandoning the gems she had so desperately longed to devour. And yet, though exposed to the burning wrath of the Balrogs, the Silmarils remained untainted. Still, they remained in Morgoth's possession.
At last, freed from his prison, the Dark Lord rose above his fiery servants. He spoke no word of gratitude. He merely turned and set forth toward his fortress, returning to the ruins of what had once served as his refuge.
---
-Alqualondë, the Harbor-
"Don't do it!" shouted Ilarion as he knocked out a Teleri. With the swiftness of the wind, he moved toward Galadriel, who, sword in hand, was about to strike down a Teleri from behind. However, the blade was stopped by Ilarion's firm grip.
Trickles of his blood snaked down the blade, dripping onto the ground. Galadriel, stunned, took a step back. Her hands loosened around the hilt of her sword.
"What… what are you doing, Ilarion?" she stammered, her breath unsteady.
Her fury had clouded her judgment. With the speed of the wind, she lunged at him as the young elf, wincing in pain, released the sword.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice breaking.
"Why did you do that…?" she whispered, still dazed.
Ilarion looked at her with calm resolve, despite the pain.
"The sword must only be stained with the blood of our enemies," he said firmly. His gaze swept over the surrounding Teleri. "And they are not our enemies."
Those words struck deeply at the Teleri, whose faces, once burning with rage, now showed an unsettling hesitation. Rationality dawned upon them—why attack Ilarion? From the beginning, the young elf had only knocked them unconscious; he had never drawn his sword. And yet, they had been willing to kill him.
...
Huan, the guardian hound of Valinor and now Ilarion's loyal companion, attacked the Teleri archers, breaking their bows and scattering them in fear. Yet he neither wounded nor killed, for he could not bring himself to harm the innocent Teleri.
His eyes reflected sorrow, this slaughter was a scene of horror to him, but he could do nothing to stop it. It was not yet his time to speak, not yet. Fortunately, the one he had chosen to follow remained true to his principles and had not slain a single Teleri.
Then it happened.
A gut-wrenching scream, filled with pain, echoed across all of Aman. A cry so powerful that it halted the battlefield. The elves turned in confusion, searching for the source of the sound. This brief pause allowed the wounded Teleri to retreat. But soon, the moment of shock was forgotten. The Noldor, seeing the Teleri flee, gave chase, only to be stopped by a second cry, this time not of pain, but of grief and despair.
"Enough!" Ilarion's voice rang out, halting the Noldor who still thirsted for their brethren's blood.
Ilarion looked into the distance, toward the figure of his father standing tall.
Ilarion saw him, and Fëanor saw him too. The greatest of the Noldor understood his son's gaze. Their purpose had been fulfilled, the Teleri ships were now in the hands of the Noldor. Those Teleri who had fought to defend them were either dead or had surrendered.
With a thunderous voice, Fëanor rose upon the deck of a captured ship.
"You have heard my son, this is enough! Take the ships and prepare to depart!"
***
support me on patreon where advance chapters will be published "p@treon.com/Mrnevercry"