-Aldril-
The wind howled in my ears. Something held me with overwhelming strength—damp and viscous. I still didn't dare open my eyes; the blast of fire had nearly blinded me. Fortunately, the elven stone inherited from my great-grandfather steadily healed my wounds, preventing the damage from consuming my eyes completely.
"Damn it," I muttered through clenched teeth, jaw tightening against the discomfort. I was falling. It seemed inevitable that the Balrog would meet its fate in an abyss—whether by Gandalf, by my own hand, or, as now, by sheer accident.
Who would have imagined that the nameless creature possessed such power? Even when I unleashed my magic at full force, it barely inflicted a deep wound, but nothing fatal against its regeneration. Middle-earth surely hid monsters that defied all reason.
A thunderous roar shook the air, so violent it nearly shattered my eardrums. I opened my eyes. Vision returned slowly, and with it, dread: the Balrog, ensnared by a tentacle, struggled furiously, striking relentlessly at that nameless creature.
I extended both hands and summoned my loyal blades. Anguirel and Anglachel shone in their full might—their dark and pale tones intertwining in perfect contrast. Scattered during the fall, they returned to me like old allies.
With a cross-shaped strike, I severed the tentacle binding me.
The creature, absorbed in its battle with the Balrog, shuddered at the sudden pain. It was the opening the demon needed: it plunged its flaming sword deep into the abomination's body. A piercing shriek erupted through the chasm, so sharp it forced us both—the Balrog and I alike—to turn our heads in agony… yet neither of us loosened our grip on our weapons.
"Silence, vile creature!" a voice thundered unmistakably.
I looked up and saw a distant point growing closer, until the figure of the Grey Wizard emerged with power. Gandalf descended with his staff raised high, its head blazing with a bluish radiance. Without hesitation, he struck a crushing blow into the beast's gaping maw.
The explosion was instantaneous, hurling us all into free fall. Luckily, I narrowly dodged a nearby rock—otherwise the impact would have been brutal. The Balrog, however, was not so fortunate: its wings and torso slammed against a jagged outcrop, tearing a cry of anguish from its throat.
The creature, in contrast, was silent: its entire mouth had been obliterated. Only its eyes and writhing tentacles, thrashing with erratic fury, betrayed its pain.
I brought my arms together and launched forward. As I neared the abomination, I raised my blades and drove them into its right socket. With a roar, I invoked once more the fusion of ice and fire.
The blast rattled me, yet it sent the monstrosity plummeting even faster into the abyss. I fixed my gaze, wary of a counterattack from its tentacles; but the aberration remained still, as if lifeless… though the spasmodic twitch of its appendages revealed otherwise.
I frowned and looked upward. There was Gandalf, locked in battle with the Balrog—the very scene I had once seen in that film now unfolded before me, raw and brutal. I tried to rush to his aid, but a crushing pressure froze my every movement.
A chill swept through me, raising every hair on my skin. I could even see Gandalf's pupils dilating as the Balrog, desperate, clawed at the nearby rocks. We all felt it at once: we were approaching something that transcended our strength.
-¿?-
The radiance of golden hair illuminated a vast hall, whose borders seemed to vanish into infinite veils and woven threads. Indefinable fabrics stretched in every direction, and the walls rose adorned with tapestries recounting the great events of Arda.
There, with swift and graceful movements, Vairë wove the stories of all living beings. Yet for an instant, her hands stilled.
"It has begun…" she whispered to herself.
Another voice, equally elegant and brimming with power, answered:
"Yes. His trial has already begun."
Varda had descended unnoticed, and with her, countless stars scattered, filling the hall with radiance wherever she went. With serene grace, she stepped forward, approaching her sister.
"Now he shall be granted the choice. If he overcomes this trial, he will receive the grace to embrace immortality… or to accept mortality, just as his grandfather once did in ages past," she said.
Another voice followed, heavy with concern.
"My son…" whispered Tindómiel.
The elf often wandered freely through the halls of Vairë, for the weaver of stories cherished her company. There, Tindómiel would gaze again and again at her son's deeds, embroidered in thread. Yet when she reached the scene where he entered Moria and fought the abomination, she froze, her heart tightening. She rushed toward Vairë, eager for her hands to continue the tale.
It was then that the surprise revealed itself: not only was Vairë present, but also Varda, the mightiest of the Valier. Rarely was she found beyond her dwelling in the heavens, where she watched over her creations and at times set new constellations in the skies. To see her in the hall of weaving was an uncommon sight—and an omen of something momentous.
"Lady Varda," Tindómiel said, bowing in a gentle and graceful reverence. "Permit me to ask… is this the trial my son must face?"
With a radiant smile, Varda nodded.
"It is, dear one. Yet the outcome remains unknown: all will depend on young Aldril. Who can tell? Perhaps he will even grant us a great surprise."
And those words were not without reason, for Varda perceived the gaze of her Father upon Middle-earth. Perhaps Eru already knew the ending, but just as a musician knows by heart the verses of his song, he still marvels when he hears it performed.
Tindómiel bowed her head in reverence.
"I thank you," she whispered.
All she could do was pray that her son might endure this trial. As she once had in her own time, Aldril now faced a test that would bring him to the breaking point. Everything rested on him: to rise and triumph… or to falter and lose the chance to embrace the immortality flowing in his elf blood.
'Oh, dear Túrin… if only you were with me,' she thought, as a tear slid down her fair, unblemished cheek.
Let not her nature—so often described as free-spirited and sharp-tongued—deceive anyone: she was still a woman who had endured alone for far too long. She had witnessed the death of her father and brothers, and watched as the kingdom her forebear had built with such care was erased from the face of Arda, undone by the foolishness and greed of those who came after.
-Moria-
The ominous premonition froze the blood of all three; even the nameless creature ceased its writhing. Its tentacles recoiled, curling back as though in a gesture of submission. This was no good omen, and their unease deepened at what they beheld.
Their fall was nearing its end, for a vast body of water awaited them in the depths. To them, the descent had seemed brief, yet in the outer world more than a day and a half had already passed.
But they could feel it. Something awaited in the depths of those waters, and the colossal tentacles stirring in the gloom bore witness to its presence. Guttural roars rolled through the abyss, reverberating in echoes that shook everything around them.
This is not good, Aldril and Gandalf thought in unison. And indeed, it was not. They had descended into the deepest reaches of Arda, where arcane beings had remained hidden and slumbering for countless millennia.
It was the place where the nameless ones gathered. Yet above all, it was the place where one of the three Silmarils awaited—silent, patient—waiting for the coming of one worthy… and pure.
***
Support me in "[email protected]/Mrnevercry"