The Eyes of the Valley

by He That Walks Unseen
May 1, 2007
Poetry > Author's page

The Helcaraxe trembled under his mighty feet
as he led the host to a safer place,
where the clouds of heaven and the mountains meet
and where sunlight brightens the darkest of days.

Centuries were swallowed by the throats of time
and the lord of darkness, with his iron hand,
made war upon kingdoms both fair and sublime
until 'Sudden Flames' killed and broke the land.

Many lives were lost, despair marked the fields
with a constant sorrow heavier than the blows
of one thousand Gronds over elven shields
deprived of their magic and their precious glows.

He who stood on ice remembered his sword,
he who went to Angband in the ancient days
arose like the fire that utters no word
as Orome arises with wrath on his face.

All enemies ran and fled from his path
But one soul did follow the steps of the king
who unleashed the horrors of his bloody wrath
as he instructed Ringil to destroy and sing.

The lost soul who followed Fingolfin observed
three sparks on the face of the mighty lord,
two sparks sang of hatred and death well deserved
and the other cried the name of his sword:

"Ringil, ignite, precious ice of mine!"

The gates of the fortress, no one could surpass,
and Fingolfin thought that he rode alone
but not far from there, behind a great stone,
IMLADHEN observed all that came to pass.

The king smote the gates and shouted his name,
the dark lord, in fear, was forced to come forth
to face the high king who dwelt in the north,
who fought for his people, not for endless fame.

No being was around to behold the fight
but Imladhen, he who could see it all,
he who saw the titans on that misty night
which had come upon him like an iron wall.

This is what he saw, this is the true tale!

Seven wounds and screams were caused by the ice,
the blackness of Grond descended like rain
but the king's ideals and his opened eyes
prevented the horrors and terrors of pain.

Morgoth thought his might and his realm were lost
but then Ringil froze and detained its flight
and the King, in horror, observed in the frost
a terrible shape which AROSE IN MIGHT.

A pupil it was, the prince of the shade,
who entered the body of Ringil at once
and thus he stopped the deadly blade
and thus continued the black dance.

The blade stopped, the hammer on fire,
the crater, the fall, decay, despair
a blow, a wound, a humble desire
for things that used to be so fair.
The foot of death over the kingly head,
the path of Grond described in flames,
the final hew, the screams, the names,
the final breath, the king was dead.

The friendly wings came from the sky
and took the king far from the place
of certain death where shadows lie
and where all things can lose their grace.

Imladhen stood like a pillar of stone,
thinking, cursing, desiring to fight
for he who arose in might had won
like day's surrender to the night.

After a while he left the place
with a great burden on his hands
for he had seen the very face
of the great lord of the black lands.

He had to sing the songs and sing
the tale of him who was outnumbered
by deadly arts who stole and plundered
the victory of this great king.

"Fingolfin lives", Imladhen said,
he lives in me, he lives in glory,
he has a dwelling in my head
as long as I recall his story