~Help is on the way to the sufferers in Beleriand, a light in the sky. At last, Morgoth's rule is over.~

oOo

Vingilot, by Gnome

Vingilot

The bright spot was approaching fast and grew in size. Now the onlookers saw it came from a ship suspended in midair, traveling the sky as if it were water. It looked strange, but not as strange as the mountainous black dragon.

"I built that," said Círdan. His mouth was partly open at the baffling sight. "It is Vingilot, Eärendil's ship!"

The flying ship was surrounded by a dozen or so of black specks: birds, but much larger than any species Thranduil had ever seen. They could only be the famous Great Eagles, the Valarsent helpers who in the past saved both Beren and Lúthien and the lost boys Húrin and Huor.

The dragons had seen the approaching fleet and roared fiercely at the sight, advancing on the light from all directions like moths around a lantern. The Great Eagles were only about half the size of the smaller dragons, yet seemed completely undaunted. They returned the challenge with defiant shrieks, and suddenly the world was alive with more birds. Chirping, warbling, wings flapping, they rose from all around the onlookers, and from all over Beleriand, from the tiniest wren to the largest condor.

Now it was the dragons' turn to shriek. In fear.

The eagles and their small cousins descended on the reptiles. They clung to their scaly hides in a dense, crawling mass of beaks and claws, pecking out eyes and perforating wings. One by one the monsters tumbled to the ground, large craters forming where they landed, and they lay in them writhing and trembling with broken necks and limbs, life slowly draining until they became still.

"It is working!" cried Círdan eagerly.

At last only Ancalagon remained. He bellowed in fury when the birds surrounded him, dispersing them with powerful strikes of his wings. Like swatting a swarm of flies. His movements caused new bolts of lightning and a storm was blowing up.

The birds did not give up; for every cluster Ancalagon sent reeling another took their place, stubbornly flying through torrents of rain and hail to reach their target. But still the black beast remained flying, still his wings were intact. His hide must be too thick even for the sharpest eagle beak.

"They won't make it," Aerneth murmured, clutching Thranduil's hand so tightly it hurt. It was becoming hard to see what was happening behind the storm clouds and flocks of birds and the thunder was ear-shattering.

He wrapped his arms around her, comforting her and himself both. "They will. Just wait." But he did not believe his own words.

A light dissolved part of the clouds, but not from the Silmaril. This was red and sullen. Ancalagon prepared to torch the annoying bird armada.

"No," whispered Aerneth.

Thranduil stopped breathing. He wanted to tear his gaze away but could not. Was this the end of Manwë's proud Eagles?

Then he noticed the light from the Silmaril growing stronger, almost like sunlight. The dark clouds were driven away to show a starry sky, with the brightest star of all there in the prow of Eärendil's ship.

Vingilot steered straight towards Ancalagon's glowing chest. With the Silmaril, the ship's bowsprit pierced it easily, sliding through scales and hide like a knife through butter. The beast howled in pain as fire and smoke poured out of the hole to smolder him from within.

The enormous dragon was beginning to sway. Turning around, he set course to the north whence he came, to Morgoth's fortress. Blood poured in his trail.

Eärendil on his ship, the Great Eagles, and all the birds of the sky followed in a cacophony of bird song. Their triumphant voices were joined by the cheering of the elves on the mountain top.

Thranduil slowly exhaled, trying to relax his taut body. He must be nearly crushing Aerneth's hand.

He did not join the cheer, not quite daring to believe they were safe yet. The dragon was still up in the air, gravely wounded but alive. In battle, it was never over until the last foe fell. There could still be nasty surprises in store.

As he stood watching the fleeing dragon, he noticed to his surprise the eastern sky was brightening. It felt like Eärendil arrived only moments ago, yet now it would soon be sunrise. The battle had lasted all night.

When Ancalagon reached his home, he perched on the tallest peak of the Thangorodrim mountain range, roaring defiantly at his pursuers. But Eärendil did not hesitate; again he directed the ship towards his enemy. Again it ran true, tearing another hole in the black skin, and more flames erupted.

The dragon shook his wings and lashed out with the long, jagged tail, but its course was stopped by the Eagles. They hung on to the whiplike appendage, holding it back to give Eärendil access.

In his final charge Eärendil delivered a killing strike. The beast wailed; a prolonged, trumpeting hoot that ended abruptly when he crashed onto the cliffs in a cascade of rocks and debris. The impact was so immense the ground shook all the way to where Thranduil stood.

He would have cheered and rejoiced at the victory, but there was no time, for the trembling did not stop. Instead it escalated, tremor after tremor, turning into a large-scale earthquake. Cracks appeared, only in a few places first but quickly spreading outwards in a web that soon spanned the entire continent. The surrounding lands began to slide towards the fissures, dragging everything with them into the abyss. Steam from the deep poured out and filled the air with a sulphuric stench.

Thranduil fell to his knees, pulling Aerneth with him. He covered her body with his own, clasping his ears against the blasting noise, praying the earth would not swallow them whole.

The mountain they lay on quavered worse and worse, until part of it exploded. Large chunks of rock spurted in all directions, hailing down over the unprotected people, breaking in showers of shards where they landed.

But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They were completely at the mercy of the forces of nature.

The deadly stone rain subsided at last, but still the ground had not calmed. Thranduil risked a look and swallowed thickly when he saw the sheer drop where moment's ago there had been a cliffside with an entrance to their colony. The cleft was filling up with water; the sea had welled in through the new cracks and channels, foaming with waves from the continuing quake, eating away the last of Beleriand until it was lapping the foot of the mountains.

Panicked voices mingled with the roaring water.

"The sea is coming!"

"It is happening. The land sinks!"

"Are we safe? Will the water reach us?"

"it is still rising. We must leave."

"There is nowhere to go!"

That was true; they were caught between the rising ocean and the broken cave. They had to stay and hope the mountain was high enough.

Waves rushed. The ground kept trembling with aftershocks, but fainter now. Thranduil's rapid heartbeat filled his ears.

His mind had never been so alert. He saw everything with uncanny clarity. The white foam on the wave peaks. A tree trunk floating past. A part of the cliff breaking loose and falling into the sea with a splash.

Gradually it became quiet, with only low moans and whimpers from the injured. As if people held their breath not to drown.

"It stopped. I think the water is stopping," whispered Aerneth hoarsely. Her face was streaked with dust and tears.

It was. The sea would not take them.

Thranduil began to breathe calmer. He touched his cheek and got blood on his fingers, perhaps from a stone splinter. But he was still alive. Aerneth was still alive. They had survived.

He rose unsteadily, bracing himself against the slight tremor under his feet. Aerneth stood next to him, taking his hand again and mutely squeezing it.

Before them a changed world expanded. It had happened at last, the disaster that was foretold. Beleriand had sunk under the sea.

oOo

Thranduil was weary to the bone. He had been searching through the ruins of the cave for many hours together with the other survivors, climbing over broken rocks and smashed furniture, using a piece of wood to shovel away gravel. His heart ached each time he found a crushed corpse or gravely injured person. The worst were the children.

There was dust everywhere and the work did not feel entirely safe, but it had to be done. Apart from rescuing people and burying the dead they needed to salvage food and healing equipment or many of them would have survived the earthquake only to die of starvation or festering wounds instead.

Now the sun was sinking again. Almost a whole day had passed.

He stretched his aching back. They were lighting fires down at the new beach that was created when the sea rose, and the aroma of cooking drifted up. It made him remember how long ago his last meal had been and his stomach growled.

Amroth came over to him. "We should stop for the night; it is too dangerous to continue in the dark."

"Soon. You go ahead."

"Alright, but do not stay too long."

Thranduil continued, squeezing past a caved-in door to get deeper into the former colony. He was trying to reach the part where his and his father's shelter had been. There was a small box there he needed to find, one that he had once carved to Aerneth for her begetting day and later filled with white gems and her wedding ring. His keepsakes, the only belongings he had left.

oOo

It was nearly dark when Thranduil finally left the cave, carrying a bundle of salvaged items; his precious box included. Half the world had disappeared but he would keep his memories. The thought made him strangely happy.

Down at the beach, the area had been divided into different camps. He passed Gil-galad's first, where Aerneth and Elrond had set up a temporary healing tent, and dropped a bag of bandages and salves he had found in the ruins.

She looked as weary as Thranduil felt, but grateful. "Thank you, that is wonderful. We have been cleaning wounds with seawater and binding them with our own clothes. Do you think there is more? We need blankets too."

"I will continue searching as soon as the sun is up."

In Oropher's camp, his father greeted him with an uncharacteristically pleased grin. "There you are, at last!" He proudly told his son how he had managed to get the best camp spot for his people, as far away from the humans as possible and close to the freshwater stream. "And..." He lowered his voice and indicated a large pile covered with sailcloth. "That is our storage. I made sure we got a fair share of the supplies this time, before Celebrimbor could get his greedy hands on them."

Thranduil stared blankly at him. It was beyond his comprehension how Oropher could be concerned with such trifles after the disaster they had been through, but he was not surprised. Neither was he surprised that his father had survived the quake completely unscathed and showing no trace of fear or shock afterwards. Sometimes he seemed devoid of normal elvish emotions.

As Thranduil went over to the stream to wash his hands and drink his fill, he wished he could put aside his own emotions that easily. The visions of crushed babies and large boulders with body parts sticking out underneath would probably haunt him forever.

When he rose, water dripping from his chin, he noticed Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond and Elros nearby. They stood at the shore, watching a slowly dwindling star in the western sky.

The Silmaril.

So, Eärendil was leaving again. Did he even know his sons had survived? Did he care?

Maedhros clenched a fist tightly. "Come back," he growled under his breath. "It is ours." There was a strange blend of longing and desperation in his gaze.

"It is over," said Maglor tonelessly. "We failed Adar."

The half-elven twins glumly watched their father abandon them for the second time. Then Elrond straightened his shoulders and resolutely turned his back on the star. "I need to check on my patients."

oOo

The following days, makeshift boats and rafts began to arrive at the beach, carrying refugees – mostly humans – who had survived the sinking of Beleriand by clinging to anything floatable. The lights of the fires had attracted them.

Behind them came a fleet of real ships with familiar banners. Teleri ships, carrying the Host of the Valar.

Eönwë the Maia was aboard the first ship to anchor. An almost eerie silence ensued when he stepped ashore, at least a head taller than an elf, emanating power and might. Thranduil felt his knees bend almost of their own, and around him everyone did likewise – even Oropher.

Eönwë addressed the assembled in a clear voice that carried far. "I bring good tidings to ye who suffered in the hither lands. The enemy is no more." After the expected cheer had died out, he continued, telling a compelling tale of the war and the victory, starting from the beginning. He described how Elwing had carried the Silmaril to Eärendil, who used its light to guide the ship through the perilous reefs and enchanted islands, and succeeded where none had before to sail to Aman unscathed. There he had come before Manwë, King of the Valar, to seek aid. His request was granted and a great host set sail from Valinor, leaving only very few behind, and thus began the War of Wrath.

Since his father had followed the progress of the war through the seeing stone Maedhros had given him, Thranduil knew much about it already, yet he immediately became enthralled by the unfolding tale. The Maia certainly had the gift of speech and it was understandable the King of the Valar had made him his herald.

Eönwë told of the many setbacks, and the long standstill in the Pass of Sirion, but how thanks to the bravery and strategic skill of the mortal men of Hithlum they had managed to break through at last. Now followed a final battle outside Morgoth's gates – or so they thought. For, to their dismay, Morgoth had one more card to play. He released his host of winged dragons.

Thranduil perked up his ears. All he knew about that part of the war was what he had been able to see for himself, but the battle in the sky had happened far away and much had been obscured by clouds and smoke.

"But we were not swayed," Eönwë continued. "For, we saw a new light in the west. The Valar had raised Eärendil and his ship to the seas of the heavens, and tied the Silmaril to his brow to guide him. When he saw our plight he steered hither, and summoned to him Thorondor, King of the Great Eagles, and together with many birds, great and small, they defeated every last dragon."

Then, at last, Morgoth had surrendered. The Host caught him deep in his fortress and chained him with his own crown as a collar. The two Valar who took part in the war, Tulkas and Oromë, were now escorting him to Manwë to receive his punishment. "Beyond the walls of the world there is a dark void. Nothing lives there, and no time passes, and once cast out there, no one can return. That is his final destination."

The ensuing silence was nearly palpable. Thranduil could still not entirely fathom that the shadow in the north, under which he had been born and lived his whole life, was gone.

But not entirely, as it would turn out.

"Middle-earth is freed for now, but beware," Eönwë cautioned. "Morgoth's lieutenant Mairon – or Sauron, as he has been called – hides in the east. He claimed to be repentant of his crimes under Morgoth's servitude, yet would not board the ship to Aman where he could seek the Valar's pardon. Thus I cannot vouch for his honesty. He may turn to evil again. And bearing that threat in mind, I have come here with an invitation from my lord Manwë: those of you who wish to leave this broken shore and come to the blessed realm, the Undying Lands of Aman, are welcome to do so at first opportunity." He turned to Círdan. "Except for you, Shipbuilder."

Aerneth's father looked baffled. "What did I do, my lord?"

He gave a kind smile. "Only good deeds, such as the crafting of Eärendil's outstanding ship. And that is why you must linger yet a while. The mortal men who fought so bravely as our allies in the war will be rewarded with an island Lord Ulmo has begun to create. I task you to build a haven here, and more strong ships, so they can sail to their new home when all is ready. In addition, since there is not room on my fleet for all elves who would go to Aman, I need you to build ships for that purpose also; enough to carry every elf across the sea. You will then embark on the last ship."

A brief look of disappointment passed over Círdan's features. "As you wish, my lord."

"Ah, do not despair. I am sure the delay will be brief; people will be eager to leave. You shall soon meet your loved ones again."

"I will stay with you and help you," said Aerneth.

Thranduil felt a little sorry for her father; he must long to be reunited with his wife but that would have to wait. Some elves probably still lived in the eastern lands across the mountains, blessedly unaware of what had happened to Beleriand. Who knew how long it would take to gather them and send them west? It could take years.

"Are Eärendil and Elwing back in Aman now?" asked a voice that Thranduil still had not become used to. Elrond's adult voice.

"Nay, Half-elven, they are not." The Maia gave him a sympathetic look. "Your parents were granted a choice by King Manwë, whether to count as men or elves, and they chose the latter. But because they set feet on Aman soil when living mortals, they can neither return hither, nor stay in that land. Eärendil will guard the Silmaril and carry it on his ship across the sky every night for the rest of his days, and Elwing has been given a tower near the sea where she will dwell among the seafowls during his journeys."

Elrond swallowed. "I see."

"All future heirs of theirs will make the same choice between the races – you and your brother included, as well as any children you beget"

"Must we choose now?" asked Elros, who had grown very pale.

"Nay. Once your heart has made the choice, Manwë will know."

"Where are the other two Silmarils?" asked a voice in the crowd. Thranduil could not see who, but had his strong suspicions.

"They are in my keeping," Eönwë returned. "I plucked them out of Morgoth crown myself and will carry them back to Aman once my work is done here. And, talking of Morgoth and our victory over him, I say it is due time we celebrate it. Tonight we feast!"

Looking rather shy and uncomfortable, Gil-galad spoke for the first time that evening. "My lord, we have almost no food... It will be a bleak feast, I am afraid."

Eönwë's ethereal face broke out in a wide grin that made him look a bit less intimidating. "But we do." He turned towards the ships lined up along the shore. "Mariners, unload the spoils of war!"

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

This grew so long I had to split the chapter. The next part will be up tomorrow!

Image Credits:

Image Credits: Vingilot by Gnome-the-artist on Deviantart, https://www.deviantart.com/gnome-the-artist